The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,128

told Jeri with a smile. “Now we have to salvage this one, and get out of here before someone comes in to question us.”

But no sooner had she said it than the door swung open. It was a scythe. Anastasia’s heart seized for a moment until she realized who it was. Forest-green robe, concerned expression.

“My relief at seeing both of you can only be matched by my fear that someone else might,” Scythe Possuelo said. “No time for greetings – the SubSaharan scythes are already questioning why I’m here.”

“I haven’t been recognized yet.”

“Of course you have,” Possuelo said. “I’m sure the nursing staff here is all secretly atwitter about it. But luckily none of them have reported you – or you would already be on your way to Goddard. I’m here to escort you to a place of greater safety, where you can continue your broadcasts. More and more people are listening, Anastasia – and they’re finding the things you’ve been leading them to. Goddard is threatening to glean anyone caught poking around in the backbrain, but that’s not stopping people.”

“He couldn’t enforce it anyway,” Anastasia pointed out. “The backbrain is out of scythe jurisdiction.” It reminded Anastasia how much digging she still had left to do.

“So what place of safety do you propose?” Jeri asked. “Is there such a place anymore?”

“Who can say?” Possuelo said. “Safe places are dwindling just as quickly as enemies mount.” He paused, considering something. “There are rumors … of a place so out of sight not even the most well-traveled scythes know of it.”

“Sounds more like wishful thinking,” Jeri said. “Where did you hear this?”

Possuelo offered an apologetic shrug. “Rumors are like rain through an old roof. The effort of finding the source is greater than the cost of a new roof.” Then he paused again. “There’s another rumor, though, that might be more useful to us. This one’s about the Toll – the Tonists’ so-called prophet.”

Tonists, thought Anastasia. Just the mention of them brought her to the edge of fury.

“There’s no proof that the Toll ever even existed,” Jeri pointed out. “He could be just another lie the Sibilants use to justify the things they do.”

“I believe he existed,” Possuelo said. “There’s evidence to suggest that he still does – and that he’s been standing against sibilant sects – we have such a sect in Amazonia who swore he visited them and turned them from their violent ways. If it’s true, he might be a worthwhile ally to have.”

“Well, whoever he is,” said Anastasia, “he’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

Ezra Van Otterloo didn’t dress like a Tonist. He didn’t quote platitudes, he didn’t insist on traveling in groups of seven or twelve, and he definitely did not intone. He did go by Brother Ezra, however – that was the only concession he made to his calling. It was his audience with the Toll over two years ago that brought him into the fold, giving him his purpose and setting him on his path. Whether or not the Toll was divine didn’t matter to Ezra. All that mattered was that the Thunderhead still spoke to him, and that made him worthy of being followed.

Ezra traveled the world, painting whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, just as the Toll said he should do, throwing up guerilla murals everywhere he went. And just as the Toll promised, he found his bliss. He had to be quick, he had to be quiet, and in all this time he had never been caught.

He would travel the world telling local Tonists wherever he went that he was on a mission from the Toll, and they would give him food and shelter. But then he started running into Tonists who claimed that the Toll had appeared to them after he was gleaned. They told him how they’d been sibilant, but the Toll reformed them. Ezra didn’t believe it at first, but still he’d listen to their testimony. Then during the night, he’d paint a scene of the Toll’s visitation somewhere in the city, in some place where no such painting was supposed to be.

After the third set of reformed Sibilants he came across, he realized there had to be some truth to it – so he began to seek out more such encounters. He’d track down groups known to be the worst of the worst, to see if they’d also been reformed. About half of them had, and the other half he imagined were probably on the Toll’s