The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,43

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.

Greyson thought the precautions ridiculous. If there were any plots out there, the Thunderhead would thwart them, or at the very least warn him—unless, of course, it wanted them to succeed, as it had the first time he was kidnapped. Still, after that first kidnapping, Mendoza was paranoid about it, so Greyson entertained his fears.

The boat rounded the glorious southern tip of Lenape City and bounced its way up the Mahicantuck River—although many still called it the Hudson—toward his residence. Greyson sat below in the small cabin, along with a nervous Tonist girl whose job it was to see to whatever he might need during the journey. Each day there was someone new. It was considered a high honor to ride with the Toll to his residence—a reward bestowed upon the most devout, most righteous of Tonists. Usually Greyson would try to break the ice with conversation, but it always ended up being stilted and awkward.

He suspected that Mendoza was making a pathetic attempt at providing intimate companionship for the evening—because all the young Tonists who made the journey were attractive and roughly Greyson’s age. If that was Mendoza’s aim, it failed, because Greyson never made a single advance, even when he might have felt inclined. It would have been the sort of hypocrisy he could not abide. How could Greyson be their spiritual leader if he took advantage of the position?

All sorts of people were throwing themselves at him now, to the point that it was embarrassing—and although he shied away from the ones Mendoza put in his path, he did accept occasional companionship when he felt it wasn’t an abuse of his power. His greatest attraction, however, was for women who were too unsavory for their own good. It was a taste he had developed after his brief time with Purity Viveros, a murderous girl who he had come to love. Things had not ended well. She was gleaned right before his eyes by Scythe Constantine. Greyson supposed seeking out others like her was his way of mourning for her—but no one he found was anywhere near nasty enough.

“Historically, religious figures tend to be either oversexed or celibate,” said Sister Astrid, a devout Tonist of the non-fanatical variety, who managed his daily schedule. “If you can find your happy place in between, that’s the best any holy man could ask for.”

Astrid was perhaps the only one among those who attended him who he considered a friend. Or at least could talk to like one. She was older—in her thirties—not old enough to be his mother, but perhaps an older sister or cousin, and she was never afraid to speak her mind.

“I believe in the Tone,” she once told him, “but I don’t buy that what-comes-can’t-be-avoided garbage. Anything can be