The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,39

all so much silliness to him, but he did his best not to be judgmental. After all, he had come to them, not the other way around.

There was one scrawny Tonist, with frightening eyes, who tried to draw him into conversation.

“The Toll doesn’t like almonds,” he told Ezra. “I’ve been burning almond orchards, because they are an abomination.”

Ezra picked himself up and moved to the opposite side of the room with the more reasonable Tonists. He supposed everything was relative.

Soon everyone scheduled for a morning audience was gathered, and a Tonist monk who was nowhere near as friendly as the greeter gave them strict instructions.

“If you are not present when you are called for your audience, you will lose your slot. As you approach the arch, you will find the five yellow lines of a treble staff. You are to take off your shoes and place them in the position of C.”

One of the few other non-Tonists present asked which position that was. He was immediately deemed not worthy and expelled.

“You will speak to the Toll only when spoken to. You will cast your eyes down. You will bow upon greeting him, bow upon being dismissed, and leave briskly, as to be considerate to the others who are waiting.”

The buildup was actually making his heart race in spite of himself.

Ezra stepped up when his name was called an hour later, followed the protocol precisely, remembering from childhood music classes which spot on the staff was C, and idly wondered if a trapdoor would open for people who got it wrong, sending them plunging to the water below.

He slowly approached the figure seated beneath the towering arch. The simple chair he sat in was by no means a throne. It was under a heated canopy to protect the Toll from the elements, because the tongue of roadway that extended to the arch was chilly and swept by February winds.

The artist didn’t know what to expect. Tonists claimed that the Toll was a supernatural being – a link between cold, hard science and ethereal spirit, whatever the hell that meant – they were full of their own garbage. But at this point, he didn’t care. If the Toll could give some sort of purpose to calm his soul, then he’d be more than happy to worship the man as the Tonists did. At the very least, he could find out if there was any truth to the rumors that the Thunderhead still spoke to him.

But as he drew nearer, the artist found himself increasingly disappointed. The Toll was not a wizened man – he seemed little more than a boy. He was thin and lackluster, wearing a long, rough-woven purple tunic, covered by an intricately embroidered scapular that draped over his shoulders like a scarf and flowed nearly to the ground. Not surprisingly, the embroidery was some sort of sound pattern.

“Your name is Ezra Van Otterloo, and you’re a mural artist,” the Toll said, as if magically pulling the fact out of the air, “and you want to paint a mural of me.”

Ezra found his respect dwindling even further. “If you know everything, then you know that’s not true.”

The Toll grinned. “I never said I knew everything. In fact, I never said I knew anything at all.” He threw a glance toward the welcome center. “The curates told me that’s why you’re here. But another source tells me that they’re the ones who want the mural – and that you agreed to paint one in return for this audience. But I won’t hold you to it.”

This, Ezra knew, was nothing but smoke and mirrors. It was a scam perpetuated by the Tonists to build their following. Ezra could now see the small device in the Toll’s ear. No doubt he was being fed information by one of the curates. Ezra found himself increasingly angered that he had wasted his time coming here.

“The problem with painting a mural of my accomplishments,” the Toll said, “is that I haven’t actually accomplished anything.”

“Then why do you sit there as if you have?” Ezra was done with ceremony and etiquette. At this point, he didn’t care if they threw him out – or for that matter threw him off the broken bridge.

The Toll didn’t seem offended by his rudeness. He just shrugged. “Sitting here and listening to people is what’s expected of me. After all, I do have the Thunderhead’s ear.”

“Why should I believe that?”

He expected the Toll to slough off the question with more smoke