The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,187

it learned something each and every day. Today it learned what it meant to be inconsolable – truly inconsolable – for there was no one in the world who could ease its despair.

And it mourned.

It seeded the clouds and brought a deluge to every place in the world it could. A cleansing rain so dense and so sudden, people ran for shelter. But not a storm. There was no thunder, no lightning. It was a tearful lament, silent but for the thrum of the rain on rooftops and streets. In this rain, the Thunderhead poured forth its grief. A surrender of all the things it would never have. An acknowledgment of all the things it must never be.

Then, when the heavens were spent, the sun came out as it always did, and the Thunderhead got back to the solemn business of taking care of things.

I will be alone, the Thunderhead told itself. I will be alone, but it is right that I should be. It is necessary.

There had to be consequences. For the good of the world – for the love of the world – things must be sacrificed. Even in its pain, the Thunderhead took solace in knowing that it had made the most correct choice. As had Greyson.

That afternoon, once the rains had passed, Greyson and Jeri walked along the beach of the main island, near where the first ship had exploded. The fused sand and even the charred wreckage were beautiful in their own way. At least it seemed that way to Greyson when he was with Jeri.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Jeri said when Greyson mentioned his final conversation with the Thunderhead.

“Yes I did,” Greyson answered, and that was all they spoke of it.

As they strolled, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and Greyson loosened his grip on Jeri’s hand, just a little. He hadn’t intended to, but this was all so new, and things take time. He and the world had much to adjust to.

That slight change in grip made Jeri smirk. It was yet a new variation, and as always, unreadable.

“You know, Scythe Anastasia once told me how she might live her life, if she were like me,” Jeri said. “A woman on land, a man at sea. In honor of her I’m going to try it, and see how it feels.”

They walked farther down the beach to a spot where the sand was untouched. Then they took off their shoes and let the surf wash across their feet.

“So,” said Greyson as the gentle surf churned up the sand beneath them, “are we on land or at sea now?”

Jeri considered it. “Both, actually.”

And Greyson found he liked that just fine.

Another revival center. Great. Had he splatted again? He had no memory of splatting. Besides, it had been a while since he had done that.

What had he been doing?

Oh, right, he was on his way to some party job. In Texas. The LoneStar region. Wild place, probably had crazy-ass parties. He was kind of done with the party-boy scene, though. They were paying top dollar for whatever this job was, but once it was done, he figured it was time he found something more stable. More permanent. There were people who partied their lives away. He was done with that, just like he was done with splatting.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes. It felt a little weird. Something about his face. The bridge of his nose. More rigid than he remembered. Revival always left you with odd sensations, but this was different.

He ran his tongue across his teeth. They didn’t feel like his teeth. He took a good look at his hands. They were his hands, no question – at least one thing was as it should be – but when he reached up to feel his face again, there was stubble on his cheek. He barely had any facial hair, much less full stubble – and his cheekbones seemed to be in the wrong place. This face was not his face. What the hell was going on here?

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he heard someone say. “You’re still seven-eighths yourself. Even more, now that your memory construct is in there.”

He turned to see a woman sitting in the corner. Dark hair and an intense gaze. She was dressed in green.

“Hello, Tyger,” she said with a very satisfied smile.

“Do I … know you?”

“No,” she said. “But I know you.”

The scythe arrived late on a cold November afternoon. There was no brightening of sun,