The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,59

“Well, she did go somewhere. Although to be more precise, I suspect she went multiple places before she was fully digested.”

Morrison chuckled nervously, then stifled himself.

“And so now,” said Goddard, indicating Morrison’s gem-covered robe, “do you seek to impress me?”

“No, Your Excellency,” he said, once more hoping it was the right answer. “I don’t want to impress anyone anymore. I just want to be a good scythe.”

“What makes a good scythe, in your estimation?”

“A scythe who follows the laws and customs of the scythedom, as interpreted by their High Blade.”

Goddard was now unreadable—but Morrison noticed that Rand’s grin had faded, and she looked more serious. He couldn’t help but feel that he had just passed some sort of test. Or failed it.

Then Goddard clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I have a job for you,” he said. “A job that will prove that your loyalty isn’t just a fashion statement.”

Goddard took a moment to look out at the eastern view. Morrison joined him.

“You are no doubt aware that the Tonists have found themselves a prophet who is uniting the various factions of their cult around the world.”

“Right. The Toll.”

“The Tonists are the enemies of all we represent. They don’t respect us, or our calling. Their adherence to fictional doctrine threatens to undermine our society. They are weeds that need to be pulled out at the root. Therefore, I want you to infiltrate the Tonist enclave that shields this so-called Toll. And then I want you to glean him.”

The scope of the request was so great, it made Morrison light-headed. Glean the Toll? Was he really being asked to glean the Toll?

“Why me?”

“Because,” said Goddard, his robe shimmering in the late afternoon light, “they would see a more accomplished scythe coming from miles away, but would never expect me to send a junior scythe like yourself. And besides, no one will be able to get a weapon near him. What we need is a scythe who can glean with his bare hands.”

That made Morrison smile.

“Then I’m your scythe.”

That door, that door, that accursed door!

I have not seen it for almost a year. I have sworn never to seek what lies behind it. I am done with it, just as I am done with the world, and yet there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of that infernal door.

Were the founding scythes insane? Or perhaps they were wiser than anyone gave them credit for. Because by requiring two scythes present to open that door, it ensured that a madman like myself could not access the fail-safe, whatever it might be. Only two scythes in perfect agreement could breach the chamber and save the scythedom.

Fine. I could not care less. Let the world tear itself to shreds. Let the secrets of the founders remain hidden for all eternity. It serves them right for leaving it so well concealed. It was their choice to consign it to myth and nursery rhyme. To bury it in esoteric maps locked in arcane rooms. Did they truly expect someone to come along and solve their riddle? Let it all crumble to nothing. My sleep is peaceful without testing the weight of the world. I am responsible only for myself now. No gleaning. No endless moral quandaries. I have become a simple man, content with simple thoughts. The patching of my roof. The patterns of the tide. Yes, simple. I must remember not to complicate. I must remember.

But that damnable door! Perhaps the founders were not wise at all. Perhaps they were ignorant and terrified and sorely naive in their idealism. Here were twelve people who dared imagine themselves angels of death, clothing themselves in flamboyant robes just to be noticed. They must have seemed ridiculous until the day they actually did change the world.

Did they ever doubt themselves? They must have, because they had a backup plan. But would the backup plan of frightened revolutionaries be elegant? Or would it be ugly and reek of mediocrity? For, after all, it was the plan they didn’t choose.

What if their alternate solution is worse than the problem?

Which is one more reason to stop thinking about it, to renew my resolve to never, ever seek it, and to stay far, far away from that infuriating, detestable door.

—From the “postmortem” journal of Scythe Michael Faraday, June 1st, Year of the Ibex

19 Islet of Solitude

Faraday wanted no part of Kwajalein anymore. On the horizon he could see structures rising; ships came each week with more supplies, more