The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,37

piece of engineering from a complicated and stressful time, when people ripped out their hair and tore their clothes, maddened by a thing called traffic.

Things were much easier in the post-mortal world, but now stress and complication had returned with a vengeance. It made one wonder what else might return.

The great suspension bridge was named after the mortal-age explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano. It marked the approach to Manhattan – which was no longer called that. The Thunderhead had chosen to rename New York City “Lenape City” after the tribe who sold it to the Dutch all those years ago. The English had then taken it from the Dutch, and the newly born United States of America had taken it from the English. But now all those nations were gone, and Lenape City belonged to everyone – a towering place of museums and lush high-line parks wrapping like ribbons between the pinnacles of skyscrapers. A place of both hope and history.

As for the Verrazzano Bridge, it ceased to serve its function many years ago. Since no one in Lenape was in a rush to get from one place to another anymore, and since arrival in the great city should take one’s breath away, it was determined that the only acceptable way to arrive in Lenape City would be by ferry. So the various bridges were shut down, and from that moment forward, visitors would now pass through the Narrows like immigrants of old coming to seek a better life, and be greeted there by the great statue that was still called Liberty – although its green copper had been replaced by gleaming gold, and its flame fashioned from rubies.

Copper aspires to gold, and glass to a precious gem went the famous words of the last mayor of New York, before he stepped down and allowed the Thunderhead full dominion. “So let our city’s crowning glory be rubies in a setting of gold.”

But even before visitors saw Miss Liberty and the shimmering skyscrapers of Lenape, they had to pass the two towering Verrazzano pylons. The central portion of the bridge span, having fallen into disuse and disrepair, had come down in a storm before the Thunderhead had learned ways to temper the extremes of weather. But the monolithic arches on either side remained. The Thunderhead deemed them pleasing in their simple symmetry, and established teams to manage their upkeep. Painted a muted cerulean frost that was almost the color of a cloudy Lenape sky, the Verrazzano pylons managed that miraculous architectural feat of both blending in and standing out.

The roadway approaching the western arch had not fallen with the rest of the span, and so visitors could walk along the same fragment of road that mortal-age cars had once driven to a glorious photo spot directly beneath the arch, where one could view the great city in the distance.

Now, however, visitors were of a different sort, because the spot had taken on new meaning and a new purpose. Several months after the sinking of Endura, and the sounding of the Great Resonance, Tonists claimed the location as a relic of religious significance. They said there were many reasons, but one stood out above the others. The pylons resembled, more than anything, inverted tuning forks.

It was there, beneath the arch of the western pylon, that the mysterious figure known as the Toll held court.

“Please tell me why you wish to have an audience with the Toll,” said the Tonist curate to the artist. She was at an age no one in their right mind should allow themselves to reach. Her skin sagged off her cheekbones and had a rumpled look about it. The corners of her eyes looked like two tiny accordions that had fallen open on one side. The texture of her face was amazing. The artist had an urge to paint a portrait of her.

Everyone hoped that the Year of the Ibex would bring better things than the previous year. The artist was one of many who sought an audience with the Toll as the new year began. He was less in search of grand answers than he was in search of personal purpose. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that some mystic would erase the issues he had faced all his life – but if the Toll actually did speak to the Thunderhead, as the Tonists claimed, then it was at least worth the effort to inquire.

So what could Ezra Van Otterloo tell the old woman that would earn him