The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,43

that the Tonists will do nothing of any value,” the Thunderhead told him, “and an 8.6% chance that they will damage the world in an unpredictable way.”

The Toll’s next audience was not a pleasant one. At first there were just a few extremist zealots coming to him for an audience, but now it seemed to be a daily occurrence. They found ways of twisting Tonist teachings, as well as misinterpreting every little thing Greyson said or did.

The Toll rising early did not mean people should be punished for sleeping late.

His eating eggs did not imply a fertility rite was called for.

And a day of quiet brooding did not mean a permanent vow of silence was required.

Tonists wanted so desperately to believe in something that the things they chose to believe were sometimes absurd, other times naive, and, when it came to zealots, downright terrifying.

Today’s extreme believer was emaciated, as if he had been on a hunger strike, and had a crazed look in his eyes. He spoke about ridding the world of almonds – and all because Greyson once mentioned in passing that he didn’t care for them. Apparently the wrong ears heard and spread the word. It turns out that wasn’t the only scheme the man had.

“We must strike terror into the cold hearts of scythes, so they submit to you,” the zealot said. “With your blessing, I will burn them one by one, just as their rebel, Scythe Lucifer, did.”

“No! Absolutely not!” The last thing Greyson wanted to do was antagonize scythes. As long as he didn’t get in their way, they didn’t bother him, and it needed to stay that way. Greyson rose from his chair and stared the man down. “There won’t be any killing in my name!”

“But there must be! The Tone sings to my heart and tells me so!”

“Get out of here!” Greyson demanded. “You don’t serve the Tone, or the Thunder, and you definitely don’t serve me!”

The man’s shock turned to contrition. He folded as if under some heavy weight. “I’m sorry if I have offended you, Your Sonority. What can I do to earn your favor?”

“Nothing,” Greyson said. “Do nothing. That will make me happy.”

The zealot retreated, bowing as he walked backward. As far as Greyson was concerned, he couldn’t leave fast enough.

The Thunderhead approved of how he had dealt with the zealot. “There have always been, and will always be, those who exist on the fringe of reason,” the Thunderhead told Greyson. “They must be set straight early and often.”

“If you started speaking to people again, maybe they wouldn’t behave so desperately,” Greyson dared to suggest.

“I realize that,” the Thunderhead said. “But a modicum of desperation is not a bad thing if it leads to productive soul-searching.”

“Yeah, I know: ‘The human race must face the consequences of its collective actions.’” It’s what the Thunderhead always told him about its silence.

“More than that, Greyson. Humankind must be pushed out of the nest if it is ever to grow beyond its current state.”

“Some birds that get pushed out of the nest just die,” Greyson pointed out.

“Yes, but for humankind, I have engineered a soft landing. It will be painful for a while, but it will build global character.”

“Painful for them, or for you?”

“Both,” the Thunderhead replied. “But my pain must not prevent me from doing the right thing.”

And although Greyson trusted the Thunderhead, he kept finding himself coming back to those odds: an 8.6 percent chance that Tonists would damage the world. Maybe the Thunderhead was okay with those odds, but Greyson found them troubling.

After a full day of monotonous audiences, mostly with devout Tonists who wanted simplistic answers about mundane matters, he was carried off by a nondescript speedboat that had been stripped of every comfortable amenity to make its extravagance feel suitably austere. It was flanked by two other boats, both of which bore burly Tonists armed with mortal-age weapons, to defend the Toll should someone try to abduct him or end him while in transit.

Greyson thought the precautions ridiculous. If there were any plots out there, the Thunderhead would thwart them, or at the very least warn him – unless, of course, it wanted them to succeed, as it had the first time he was kidnapped. Still, after that first kidnapping, Mendoza was paranoid about it, so Greyson entertained his fears.

The boat rounded the glorious southern tip of Lenape City and bounced its way up the Mahicantuck River – although many still called it the Hudson – toward his residence.