The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,125
unopened.”
Then he turned to another.
“Aranza Monga – you once secretly told the Thunderhead that you wanted to be supplanted with the memories of your best friend, who had been gleaned. But, of course, the Thunderhead wouldn’t do such a thing.”
By the time he turned to a third, both Barton and Aranza were in tears. They fell to their knees, gripping the hem of his garment. They believed. Then, when Greyson looked around for a third, everyone braced as if about to be hit by some devastating blow.
“Zoran Sarabi…” Greyson called out.
“UUUUH,” said the man, shaking his head. “Uuuuh-uhhh…” Then he knelt in obeisance before the Toll could even speak, terrified of what truth might be told.
Finally, Greyson turned to their curate. “And you,” he said, unable to hide his disgust. “Rupert Rosewood. You demanded that all your followers feel the pain of the muteness you forced upon them … but you never felt that pain yourself. You had your tongue removed under anesthesia, because you were too much of a coward to live by your own warped convictions.”
And although the man was horrified at being exposed, he did not yield. He only grew red with anger.
Greyson took a deep breath and dug down to find his deepest, most resonant voice. “I am the Toll, the Tone made flesh. I alone hear the Thunder! This man you call ‘curate’ is not worthy of the title. He is a traitor to all you believe in, and he has misled you. Defiled you. He is false. I am true. So tell me now: Who do you serve?”
Then he took a deep breath and said one more time with a voice that could make mountains bow, “WHO DO YOU SERVE?”
And one by one, they all knelt before the Toll, lowering their heads in supplication, some even prostrating themselves on the forest floor. All of them but one. Their curate – who was now quaking with fury. He opened his hollow mouth to intone, but it was a weak, miserable sound. He was alone. No one joined him. Still, he continued until his breath failed him.
And when silence fell, Greyson turned to Mendoza, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear what came next for them.
“You will inject them all with fresh nanites, so that their tongues may grow back, and this reign of terror can end.”
“Yes, Your Sonority,” said Mendoza.
Then Greyson approached the curate. He thought the man might strike out at him. Greyson almost hoped that he would. But he didn’t.
“You’re done,” Greyson said in disgust. Then he turned to Scythe Morrison and said two, simple words that he never thought he’d hear himself say.
“Glean him.”
Without hesitation Scythe Morrison grabbed the curate with both hands, turned his head one way, his body another, and executed him.
“Tell me I was wrong!” Greyson paced the tent they had set up for him in the forest, unsettled in a way he had never been unsettled before.
“Why should I tell you that?” the Thunderhead asked, calm as calm could be.
“Because if it was wrong to order that man gleaned, I need to know!”
Greyson could still hear the sound of the man’s neck snapping. It was the most horrible thing that he had ever heard. And yet he liked it. Seeing that monstrous curate die was far too satisfying for comfort. Is this what those new-order scythes felt? A primal, predatory lust for the crushing of life? He wanted no part of that feeling, yet here it was.
“I cannot speak on the subject of death; it is not in my domain – you know this, Greyson.”
“I don’t care!”
“You’re being rather irrational.”
“You can’t say anything about death, but I know you can talk about right and wrong! So was it wrong to have given Morrison that order?”
“Only you can know that.”
“You’re supposed to be directing me! Helping me to help you make a better world!”
“And you are,” said the Thunderhead. “But you’re not infallible. Only I am infallible. So, if you’re asking me if it’s possible for you to make errors in judgment, the answer is yes. You make errors all the time … as does every other human being who has ever lived. Error is an intrinsic part of the human condition – and it is something I deeply love about humankind.”
“You’re not helping me!”
“I charged you with unifying the Tonists so that they could be more useful to the world. I can only speak to your progress in the task, not judge your methodology.”