The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,108

The thing is, if the North Merican scythedom were to check their own statistics, they’d know that he’d gleaned and granted immunity more than once. Well, he told himself, with so much gleaning going on these days, they couldn’t be expected to notice the actions of one rogue scythe.

Of course, he knew that wasn’t the truth, but the truth hurt a little too much to admit.

They didn’t notice, because they didn’t care.

He had always been a nonentity to the other scythes. An embarrassment to his mentor, who chose him because he was strong and good-looking, and then disowned him the moment it became clear that he’d never win anyone’s respect. To them he was a joke. But at least here, in the service of the Toll, his existence was acknowledged. He had a place and a purpose. He was the protector, and he liked it.

Sister Astrid was the only one who had issues with Morrison. “You, Jim, embody everything about the world I can’t stand,” she once told him.

Which made him grin. “Why can’t you just admit that you like me?”

“I tolerate you. There’s a big difference.”

As for Astrid, she had her work cut out for her keeping them all on the proper spiritual path. She stayed with the Toll because deep down, she believed that Greyson Tolliver was the real thing. That he was divinely moved by the Tone, and that his humility about it was understandable. A humble nature was, after all, the hallmark of a true holy man. It made perfect sense that he would refuse to believe he was part of the Holy Triad, but just because he didn’t believe it himself, didn’t make it any less true.

She would secretly smirk each time he faced sibilant Tonists as the Toll, because she knew he didn’t believe a single thing he said. To him it was just a role. But to Astrid, his denial made it all the more true.

And then there was Curate Mendoza: the magician, the showman, the producer of their traveling show. He knew he was the linchpin holding it all together, and although there were times that he actually believed his own faith, that always got trampled by the practicality of getting the job done.

Mendoza not only organized the Toll’s appearances, but kept in close communication with his network of curates around the globe, in a constant attempt to wrangle more and more sects under one accepted doctrine, and to help them protect themselves against scythes. Mendoza also worked in the shadows, spreading many of the false rumors about the Toll. They were amazingly helpful in keeping the flock engaged – and in keeping scythes disengaged – because how could scythes give any credence to Toll sightings when most of them were flights of fancy? Yet when Greyson found out what Mendoza was doing, he was horrified. How could Greyson not see the value?

“You’re telling people that I’ve risen from my own ashes?”

“There is precedent,” Mendoza tried to explain. “The history of faith is full of falling/rising gods. I’m laying the groundwork for your legend.”

“If people want to believe that, fine,” Greyson said, “but I don’t want to encourage it by spreading more lies.”

“If you want me to help you, why do you keep tying my hands?” Mendoza said, increasingly frustrated.

“Maybe because I want you to use your hands for something more than pleasuring yourself.”

That actually made Mendoza laugh, because what had these past few years been but Greyson Tolliver spewing his will in everyone else’s direction? But laughing at the Toll was over the line, so he backpedaled quickly.

“Yes, Your Sonority,” Mendoza said, as he always said. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” He had no choice but to back off, because arguing did nothing with this headstrong boy – a boy who had no idea what it actually took to keep his mystique alive. Although Mendoza was beginning to wonder why he even bothered.

Then something happened that changed everything.

“Grief, grief, and more grief!” the Thunderhead wailed in Greyson’s ear one evening. “I wish I could have blinded my eyes to it. This event is a grim fulcrum upon which many things will pivot.”

“Can you please not speak in riddles?” Greyson asked. “And just tell me what’s going on?”

And so the Thunderhead told him, in excruciating detail, about the stadium gleaning. Tens of thousands felled in a single evening. “It will be all over the news in a few moments – even if the North Merican scythedom tries to hide it,