The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,129
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.”