The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,138
– which was as far as any could be in the Britannia region.
He didn’t know, or care to know, that the Thunderhead had stopped speaking. And although he had heard that there was some sort of trouble on the Island of the Enduring Heart, he had no idea that it was now at the bottom of the Atlantic. That was other people’s business. Aside from occasional gleanings in and around Coventry, his business was done. He had saved the world once; now he just wanted to live out his eternity in peace.
He had few visitors. When people showed up at his door, he usually gleaned them. A fitting fate for those who would have the audacity to bother him. Of course then he would have to go out in all sorts of weather to grant immunity to their loved ones. A nuisance, but he never shirked that responsibility – that commandment. He had shirked it once before, and it weighed on him terribly. Well, at least he lived in a place that was easy on the eye when he did have to venture forth. The lush green hills of County Warwickshire had been the inspiration for many mortal-age writers and artists. It was the birthplace of Shakespeare; it was Tolkien’s bucolic Shire. The countryside was almost as beautiful as he.
This had been his birthplace as well, although he had, in his time, aligned with various different regional scythedoms near and far, changing whenever he had a falling out with the scythes of that region. He had little patience for fools, and eventually everyone proved themselves to be one. But now he was back in his birth region and had no desire to leave.
The visitors who came on that cool afternoon were no more welcome than any others. But as one of them was a scythe, he couldn’t glean them, and he couldn’t turn them away. He had to be hospitable, which, for the ageless scythe, was an outrageously unpleasant thing to be.
The scythe in turquoise took a gander at his pearl silk robe. “Scythe Alighieri?”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “What do you want?”
She was a pretty thing. It made him want to turn a quick corner, setting all the way down to her age so that he might woo her. Of course it was frowned upon for such relations between scythes, but who would know? He fancied himself quite a catch at any age.
Anastasia was instantly repulsed by the man but did her best to hide it. His skin looked like a plastic mask, and the shape of his face was wrong in some intangible way.
“We need to talk with you,” she said.
“Yes, yes, well, you’ll find it pointless,” Alighieri said.
He left the door open without actually inviting them in. Anastasia stepped in first, followed by Greyson and Jeri. They had left the rest of their entourage down by the road, as they did not want Alighieri to feel overwhelmed. Anastasia would have preferred to come alone, but now that she saw the frightful state of the man and his filthy cottage, she was glad she had Greyson and Jeri with her as she entered this haunted house.
Alighieri glanced at Greyson’s tunic and scapular. “Is that what they’re wearing now?”
“No,” Greyson said. “Just me.”
Alighieri harrumphed in disapproval. “You have awful taste.” Then he turned to Anastasia, looking her over again in a way that made her want to smash him with a blunt object.
“Your accent is North Merican,” he said. “How are things on that side of the pond? Is Xenocrates still blustering and bellowing in MidMerica?”
Anastasia chose her words carefully. “He … was made the North Merican Grandslayer.”
“Ha!” said Alighieri. “I’ll bet he was the cause of whatever trouble they’re having on Endura. Well, if you’re here seeking wisdom from a veteran scythe, you’ve come to the wrong man. I don’t have any wisdom for you. Perhaps you could consult my journals in Alexandria,” he said. “Although I’ve been remiss about submitting them…”
Then he pointed to a desk in the corner of the clutter that was piled with dusty journals. It gave Anastasia the opening she needed.
“Your journals,” said Anastasia. “Yes, that’s why we’re here.”
He looked at her again, a little differently this time. Was that worry in his expression? Hard to parse any emotion from that face.
“Am I to be disciplined for not submitting them in a timely manner?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Anastasia. “People just want to read about the … operation you were involved with.”