The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,80
remove their healing nanites – did you know that? I think it’s pretty stupid.”
Morrison met his gaze, blinking his healing eye to get a gauge on the Toll. The Tonists’ spiritual leader calling their behavior stupid? Was this a test? Was he supposed to disagree? Agree?
“Isn’t there a mortal-age word for what you’re saying?” Morrison said. “Blastony? Blasmony? Blasphemy – that’s it.”
The Toll looked him over for a moment before he spoke again. “Do you believe that the Thunderhead speaks to me?”
Morrison didn’t want to answer the question, but what did it matter now? “Yes, I believe it,” he admitted. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“Good. That will make this easier.” Then the Toll sat down in a chair across from him. “The Thunderhead didn’t choose me because I was a Tonist. I’m not – not really. It chose me because … well, because someone had to be chosen. The Tonists were the first to believe it, though. My appearance fit with their doctrine. So now I’m the Toll – the Tone made flesh. The funny thing is, I once wanted to be a Nimbus agent. Now I’m the Nimbus agent.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
The Toll shrugged. “Because I feel like it. Haven’t you heard? The Toll can do whatever the Toll feels like. Almost like a scythe.”
Silence fell between them. It felt awkward to Morrison, but it didn’t seem to feel that way to the Toll. He just stared at Morrison, pondering, cogitating, thinking whatever deep thoughts a holy man who wasn’t actually holy thought.
“We’re not going to tell Goddard that you failed in your mission.”
That was something Morrison wasn’t expecting to hear. “You’re not?”
“See, the thing is, no one, not even the scythedom, knows who the Toll actually is. You gleaned four people last night. Who’s to say that one of them wasn’t the Toll? And if I suddenly vanish from public view, without explanation, it’s going to look like you succeeded.”
Morrison shook his head. “Goddard’s going to find out eventually.”
“Eventually is the keyword. He won’t find out until we’re ready for him to. That could be years, if we want it to be.”
“He’ll know something’s wrong when I don’t come back.”
“No, he’ll just think you were captured and burned. And the sad thing is, he won’t even care.”
Morrison could not deny that the Toll was right. Goddard wouldn’t care. Not in the least.
“Like I said, the Thunderhead doesn’t have a plan for you,” the Toll told Morrison, “but I do.”
Greyson knew he had to sell this and sell it well. And he had to read this scythe like he’d never read anyone before. Because if he miscalculated, it would be disastrous.
“I’ve been reading up on mortal-age customs when it comes to leaders during dangerous times,” Greyson said. “In some cultures, rulers and spiritual leaders were protected by trained assassins. I’d feel much safer with one of those than these Tonists who think they’re guards.”
The scythe shook his head, incredulous at the suggestion. “You put out my eye, and now you want me to work for you?”
Greyson shrugged. “Your eye grew back, and you need a job,” he said. “Or would you rather go back to Goddard and tell him that you failed? That a weakling in pajamas stabbed you in the eye and escaped? I don’t think that will sit very well with him.”
“How do you know I won’t glean you the second you set me free?”
“Because I don’t think you’re that stupid. Being the Toll’s personal scythe is much better than anything Goddard would ever offer you, and you know it.”
“I would be the laughingstock of the scythedom.”
Greyson offered him the faintest of grins. “Aren’t you already, Scythe Morrison?”
Morrison had no way of knowing how much the Toll knew about him. But it was true – Morrison wasn’t respected, and nothing he had done changed that. But if he stayed here, the other scythes wouldn’t even know he was still alive … and he would be respected. Maybe it was only by Tonists, but it was still respect, and that was something he desperately wanted.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the Toll. “Why don’t I take the first leap of faith.” Then he pulled out a pair of scissors and, amazingly, began cutting Morrison’s bonds. He started down at his feet, then moved up to his arms, slowly, meticulously snipping each one.
“The curates won’t be happy,” the Toll said as he snipped. “Screw the curates.”
Then, when the last bond was cut, Morrison leaped up