The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  Then, when he was caught in Amazonia, he had to believe it was also part of the Thunderhead’s plan. But on the other hand, if it was just bad luck, the Thunderhead had ways of using that to its advantage, too.

  * * *

  While the entire SubSaharan scythedom was searching for the Sibilants who had killed their High Blade, it was an Amazonian scythe who knew where they were—thanks to a single Tonist in Scythe Possuelo’s custody.

  “We caught him painting a scene of the Toll turning into a flock of birds, on the wall of our High Blade’s residence,” Scythe Possuelo told Anastasia.

  “It’s what I do,” Ezra said with a smile.

  They were all safely aboard Possuelo’s plane. Possuelo had even brought a brand-new turquoise robe for Anastasia. It felt good to be clothed as herself again.

  “Punishment for defacing scythe property is gleaning,” Possuelo said, “but High Blade Tarsila didn’t have the heart to glean an artist. Then he told us what he’d been doing.”

  “I could paint you, Scythe Anastasia,” he offered. “It won’t be as good as a mortal artist, of course. I’ve come to accept that, but I’m less mediocre than most.”

  “Save your brushes,” she told him. Perhaps it was vanity on her part, but the last thing she wanted was to be immortalized by an artist who was “less mediocre than most.”

  “He’s been in our custody for several months—but then two tickets appeared for him on the global travel system after Tenkamenin had been killed,” Possuelo told her. “One to Onitsha, a small SubSaharan city—but the second one was baffling. It was a tour ticket to a protected wilderness where there hadn’t been tours for over a hundred years. The Ogbunike Caves.”

  To that, Ezra shrugged and smiled. “I’m special. Sure you don’t want a portrait?”

  The fact that the tickets showed up in the system after Ezra was in scythe custody could really mean only one thing: The Thunderhead wanted the Amazonian scythedom to know where the Sibilants—and the Toll—were.

  “Normally it would be a short flight,” Possuelo told Anastasia, “but we’ll have to take a roundabout route—engaging first in some bogus business elsewhere—otherwise, we might inadvertently lead the SubSaharan scythes right to the Toll.”

  “That’s all right,” Anastasia told him. “I need time to dig into the backbrain again for my next broadcast. I’m close to something on the Mars disaster.”

  “And the orbital colony?” Possuelo asked.

  Anastasia sighed and shook her head. “One catastrophe at a time.”

  “ There were 9,834 colonists on Mars. Even more than had lost their lives on the moon in the world’s first mass gleaning. And there were extensive plans to make our sister planet a home for millions, eventually billions. But something went terribly wrong.

  “Have you done your homework on Mars? Have you scanned the list of names of those doomed colonists? I don’t expect you to remember or even recognize any of them—not even the ones who were famous at the time, because fame comes and goes, and mostly their fame is gone. But look again, because there’s one name I want you to see.

  “Carson Lusk.

  “He was there when the disaster occurred, and was lucky enough to be one of the few survivors. He was in the right place at the right time, and managed to get onboard the one escape vessel that wasn’t incinerated when the colony’s reactor blew.

  “There was a big celebration when that small group of survivors finally made it back to Earth, but after that, Carson Lusk disappeared from public view.

  “Or did he?

  “Let’s back up a bit to three months before the reactor took out the colony. If you look at the transport records for craft coming to and from Mars, you’ll see a name that I’m sure you’ll find familiar. Xenocrates. He was a young scythe at the time—and the only one known to ever visit the Mars colony. It was controversial, because it implied that scythes would continue their business on the red planet. Why, people wondered, when there was an entire planet on which to expand? It would be maybe 100,000 years before a scythe would ever be needed on Mars.

  “He wasn’t there to glean anyone, he said. He was merely ‘entertaining his curiosity.’ He wanted to know what it would be like to live on Mars—and he was true to his word. He didn’t glean a single person once he reached the planet. He merely took tours and spoke with colonists. It was all very benign.

  “I have something to show you now.

  “What you’re about to see is a video record of Xenocrates’s arrival. Hard to recognize him, I know—he was still thin then, and his robe didn’t have all the gold, which he added when he became a High Blade. As you can see, he’s being greeted by the governor of the colony, and a few other dignitaries, and—there! Do you see? That young man in the background. That’s Carson Lusk! While Xenocrates was on Mars, Carson was assigned to be his personal valet. Not a good view of him, I know, but he’ll turn in a moment.

  “Remember, this was a few months before the disaster. Time enough for people to forget Xenocrates’s visit. Time for plans to be put into place, and for a team of accomplices to secretly carry those plans out, making sabotage look like just another tragic accident.

  “As for Carson Lusk, no matter how hard you look, you won’t find any record of him after his return to Earth, because within a year, his name had been changed. There—there, you see? He’s turning toward the camera now. Is his face familiar yet? No? Just add a few years, shorten his hair, and draw in a satisfied, self-important grin.

  “That young valet is none other than His Exalted Excellency, Robert Goddard, Overblade of North Merica.”

  38 A Grand Reunion of the Dubiously Deceased

  The Toll and his entourage took refuge in the same caves that the Sibilants had laid claim to. Those Sibilants were now beyond repentant, prostrating themselves in his presence and professing their unworthiness to even grovel at his feet. Normally he would not accept such hyperbolic adoration, but, considering what these people had done—all the lives they had ended—groveling was a far milder punishment than they deserved.

  Of course the Thunderhead reminded him that punishment was not its way.

  “Correction must be about lifting one up from one’s poor choices and prior deeds. As long as remorse is sincere, and one is willing to make recompense, there is no purpose to suffering.”

  Still, Greyson didn’t mind seeing them facedown in bat guano.

  The repentant Tonists decorated a grotto as lavishly as they could for him with tapestries and pillows, and begged for ways to be of service.

  “This place is as good as any to wait,” the Thunderhead told Greyson.

  “Good as any?” Greyson said. “I realize you have no sense of smell, but the stink is terrible in here.”

  “My chemical sensors are far more accurate than the human sense of smell,” the Thunderhead reminded him. “And the ammonia exuded by bat droppings is well within human tolerance.”

  “You said wait. What is it we’re waiting for?” Greyson asked.

  “A visitor” was all the Thunderhead said.

  “Can you at least tell me who it is?” Greyson asked.

  “No, I cannot.”

  This is how Greyson knew that he would be visited by a scythe. But, considering the increased hostility toward Tonists, why would the Thunderhead welcome such a visit? Maybe the SubSaharan scythedom had found their hiding place and was seeking justice from the Sibilants. But if so, why wouldn’t the Thunderhead “strongly suggest a journey” as it had back at the Cloisters, when Scythe Morrison was the enemy? No amount of tossing and turning that night could jog loose a hint of who it might be.

  “Rest easy,” the Thunderhead told him gently in the darkness. “I am here, and no harm will come to you.”

  * * *

  Scythe Anastasia had her doubts about this so-called holy man. She needed evidence that the Thunderhead spoke to him. Not just testimony, but actual, irrefutable evidence. Even as a young girl, Citra needed to see something to
believe it. This “Toll” was most likely a charismatic schemer. A con artist taking advantage of the gullible, telling them what they wanted to hear, being who they wanted him to be for his own selfish ends.

  She wanted to believe that. It was less disturbing than the idea of the Thunderhead choosing a Tonist as its liaison to humanity. It did make sense that the Thunderhead would keep one point of connection with humankind, but why a Tonist? Since the Thunderhead did not make mistakes, it must have had a good reason. But for now, she preferred to believe the Toll was a fraud.

  Their destination was an inhospitable SubSaharan forest, a dense unrelenting snarl of trees and wicked, thorny undergrowth that snagged Anastasia’s new robe and pricked her through the fabric, leaving her itchy as they made their way to the cave where the Toll was sequestered. As they finally neared the cave, they were accosted by Tonists standing guard.

  “Do not resist,” said Possuelo—but letting her guard down was not easy for Anastasia, knowing who these people were.

  The Tonists were unarmed, but their grips were firm. Anastasia scanned their faces. Was this the one who had thrown Tenkamenin to the ground? Was that the one who had hurled Scythe Baba onto the pyre? She could swear their faces were familiar, but it could have been her imagination. Possuelo had insisted that they leave their weapons behind. Now she realized it wasn’t just to kept them from being confiscated, but also to stop Anastasia from giving in to her rage. Every part of her wanted to exact retribution, but she fought it. She had to keep reminding herself that true scythes—honorable scythes—never gleaned in anger. But if a single one of them raised a weapon, she would let loose using her most deadly Bokator moves on them, breaking necks and spines without mercy.

  “We request an audience with the Toll,” Possuelo said.

  Anastasia was about to point out that this sect was tongueless, but to her surprise, one of the Tonists responded.

  “The Toll was elevated to a higher octave two years ago,” one of the Tonists responded. “He is with us now only in harmony.”

  Possuelo was not deterred. “We have heard otherwise,” he said, then added, “We are not here to glean him; we are here for our mutual benefit.”

  The Tonists studied them a few moments longer. Serious faces, dripping distrust. Then the one who first spoke said, “Come with us. He has been expecting you.”

  Anastasia found that annoying on too many levels to count. If he was expecting them, then why did the Tonist deny he was here? And was he truly expecting them, or did this lackey just say that to make the Toll seem mysterious and all-knowing? Before even meeting him, she already detested this man behind the curtain.

  The Tonists led them forward, and although Anastasia didn’t pull away from their grip, she gave them the opportunity to reconsider it.

  “You’d best let go of me if you want to keep your hands.”

  The Tonists did not ease their grip in the least. “My hands will grow back like our tongues,” one of them said. “The Toll, in his wisdom, has given us back our nanites.”

  “Good for him,” Anastasia said. “At least he’s not a complete imbecile.”

  Possuelo gave her a warning glare, and Anastasia decided silence would be the best policy, because nothing out of her mouth right now would benefit the situation.

  The procession halted at the entrance to the cave—a gaping triangular maw. It was here where they would be presented to the Toll…

  … but even before the Toll arrived, the first person out of the cave made it abundantly clear to Anastasia that this ride was definitely going to be worth the price of admission.

  * * *

  When Scythe Morrison heard that an elegy of scythes was at the cave entrance, he was convinced that the North Merican scythedom had finally come for him. Goddard must have known he was alive, must have known what he’d been up to these past few years, and had sent this team to bring him in. He considered running, but there was only one exit from the cave. Besides, he wasn’t the same man he had been when he first began this service to the Toll. That junior scythe would save himself at the expense of all others. But this Scythe Morrison would face his capture bravely, defending the Toll to the last, as he had promised to do.

  He stepped out first, as he always did, to assess the threat level and be generally intimidating, but he stopped short at the cave entrance when he saw a familiar turquoise robe. A robe he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.

  Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.

  “You?” she said.

  “No,” Morrison blurted, “not me! I mean, yes it’s me, but I’m not the Toll, I mean.” Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Anastasia.

  “What are you even doing here?” she asked.

  He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one.

  The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. “You mean to say you two know each other?”

  But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “As usual, you’re in the way, Morrison,” he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation.

  Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them.

  He stopped short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should.

  “Okay,” said Scythe Anastasia. “Now I know I’ve lost my mind.”

  * * *

  Greyson knew that the Thunderhead must have been enjoying this moment immensely—he could see its cameras whirring on the nearby trees, taking in everyone’s expressions, swiveling back and forth to see this absurd little tableau from every angle. It could have given him at least an inkling that he’d be seeing not only someone he knew, but the very individual who, in a way, was responsible for the strange path his life had taken. It couldn’t have told him directly, of course, but it could have given him hints and let him deduce it for himself. But then, even with a thousand clues, he would have marched into this encounter clueless.

  He resolved not to give the Thunderhead the satisfaction of seeing him bug-eyed and slack-jawed. So when Anastasia suggested that she may have just lost her mind, he said, as nonchalantly as he could, “Endura rises! All rejoice!”

  “Endura didn’t rise,” she said. “Just me.”

  He held his formal expression for a moment more but couldn’t maintain it. He began to grin. “So you really are alive! I wasn’t sure if those broadcasts were real.”

  “And… you two know each other as well?” said the Amazonian scythe.

  “In a previous life,” said Anastasia.

  Then one of her other travel companions began to laugh. “Well, isn’t this rich! A grand reunion of the dubiously deceased!”

  Greyson’s attention lingered. There was something engaging about her. Or him.

  Mendoza, trying to regain some decorum, cleared his throat, puffed up a bit, and spoke in his best stage voice “His Sonority, the Toll, welcomes you all, and grants you an audience!” he declared.

  “A private audience,” Greyson quietly prompted.

  “A private audience!” boomed Mendoza, but he made no move to leave.

  “Meaning,” said Greyson, “just between Scythe Anastasia and me.”

  Mendoza turned to him, his eyes panicked. “I don’t think that’s wise. At least take Morrison with you for protection.”

  But Morrison put up his hands in instant surrender. “Leave me out of this,” he said. “I’m not going up against Scythe Anastasia.”

  The Thunderhead’s cameras whirred, a
nd Greyson could swear it sounded like electronic laughter.

  “Take the others in,” Greyson said, “and get them something to eat. They must be starving.” He turned to the Tonists around them who had witnessed this odd but momentous reunion. “All is well,” he told them, then gestured to Anastasia. “Walk with me.”

  And the two of them stepped off together into the woods.

  * * *

  “ ‘Walk with me’?” said Anastasia when they were out of earshot. “Really? Could you be any more pretentious?”

  “It’s part of the act,” Greyson told her.

  “So you admit it’s an act!”

  “The prophet part is—but it’s true that I’m not unsavory, and the Thunderhead really does speak to me.” He gave her a wry grin. “Maybe it’s my reward for saving your life that day and letting you hit me with your car.”

  “It wasn’t my car,” Anastasia pointed out. “It was Scythe Curie’s. I was just learning how to drive it.”

  “And a good thing, too! If you had been a better driver and had missed me, we’d have all been incinerated,” he pointed out. “So, does this mean that Scythe Curie is still alive, too?”

  Anastasia’s heart sank at having to speak the truth aloud. She doubted it would ever be easier. “Marie died making sure I could eventually be revived.”

  “Revived,” said Greyson. “That explains why you don’t look a day older than you did three years ago.”

  She took a long look at him. He did look different, and it wasn’t just the outfit. His jaw seemed a little harder, his gait more confident, and his gaze so direct as to be invasive. He had learned to play this role well—just as she had learned to play hers.

  “The last I heard, you refused the offer of sanctuary I arranged for you in Amazonia. So instead you stayed with the Tonists?”