The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,117
He wanted to defend them, but how? With what? No one ever attacked a firefighter – except for maybe the occasional scythe, but when a scythe attacked, you got gleaned, end of story. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t struggle. But this was very different. These Tonists were rendering people deadish left and right, and no one knew what to do.
Think! he told himself. Think! He was trained to fight fires, not people. Think! There has to be something I can do!
And then it came to him.
Fire axes!
They had fire axes! He ran across the garage to grab one. But could he actually use it against another human being? He’d have to, because he wasn’t about to let these Sibilants render his entire unit deadish.
Just then, the Tonists began throwing rocks at the trucks. One came in the chief’s direction, and he caught it before it could hit him.
It wasn’t exactly a rock, though. First of all, it was metallic and had hard ridges. He’d seen something like this before in history books. Think! What was it called? Oh right – a grenade!
And in an instant there was nothing more for the chief to think about.
iii. Confutatis
High Blade Tenkamenin was a deliberate man. He only appeared to be impulsive and flip, when, in fact, everything about his life was planned and organized. Even the chaos of his Lunar Jubilees was a controlled chaos.
He suspected that time was of the essence after that urgent warning call from his father, but it was impossible for him to fight his own instincts. He had quickly retreated to his humble residence, where he struggled with his valet to figure out what he needed to take with him for a hasty escape. A second robe, of course. But should it be one for cold weather or warm? Who should be notified that they were leaving? High Blades couldn’t just vanish. He found himself confounded by it all.
“Your Excellency,” said the valet, “didn’t you say that we were in a hurry?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
And there were things of sentimental value that absolutely had to come with him. The engraved obsidian revolver given to him by Grandslayer Nzinga the day he took her place as High Blade. The silver dagger he’d used for his first gleaning. If this place was about to be overrun, who knew if he’d ever see his prized possessions again. He absolutely had to take them.
For ten minutes he obsessed over what he should and should not take and was only stopped by the first distant explosions.
iv. Lacrimosa
“If we’re leaving, we should leave now!”
Anastasia paced the grand hall beneath the palace’s central dome with Jeri, waiting for everyone else to show. “Where the hell are Tenkamenin and the others?”
“Maybe you’re overreacting,” said Jeri. “I’ve had dealings with many Tonists, and never once have I known them to be violent. Annoying and strident, maybe, but never violent.”
“You didn’t see these Tonists!” Anastasia said. “And if Tenkamenin thinks they’re up to something, I believe him.”
“Then let’s leave without him,” Jeri offered. “Let him and the others catch up with us.”
“I’m not about to leave him,” Anastasia said. Just then a series of far-off explosions echoed through the grand atrium. They both stopped to listen. More explosions filled the air, like distant thunder.
“Wherever it is,” said Jeri, “it’s not here in the palace.”
“No, but it’s going to be.” Anastasia knew that whatever those explosions were, it was an omen of worse to come. An angry promise that this day would most certainly end in tears.
v. Sanctus
The young Tonist was a loyal follower. She did what her curate told her to do, because he was a true man of the Tone. Holy and sanctified. Their curate had not spoken for many years, and on the day of the Great Resonance – the day the Thunderhead went silent – he was the first to surrender his tongue. Words lied. Words connived, they dissembled with impunity, they slandered, and, above all, they offended the purity of the Tone.
One by one all the Tonists in their order made their vow a permanent one, as their curate had. Not a vow of silence, but a vow of vowels. A complete surrendering of the harsh, unnatural clicks, hisses, and pops that consonants brought. Language was the enemy of the Tonist. This is what their sect believed. Of course, there were many other Tonists who did not. But they would soon see the light. Even the ones who had blinded themselves.