The Toll (Arc of a Scythe, #3)

by Neal Shusterman

He heard a door open and turned to see Astrid coming out of the Viewhouse. She looked triumphant. “There will be a planet for Tonists!” she announced. “Kepler-186f, but I’m naming it Aria. It’s the farthest planet on the list, 561 light-years away. Cirrus calculates we have only a forty-four percent chance of reaching it without a deep-space accident, or a self-destruct scenario!” Morrison looked at her, a bit mystified by her glee. “You do understand that there’s a fifty-six percent chance that your ship won’t survive the journey….” “If the Tone is real, then it will protect us,” she said. “If the Tone is true, then we will reach our new home and prosper under a sky we can call our own.” “And if the Tone is false, and you’re blown to smithereens by a space rock?” “Then we will still have our answer,” she said. “I guess so,” said Morrison. Astrid let her shoulders drop and shook her head, gazing at Morrison in pity. “Why do you hate me so?” she asked. “I don’t hate you,” he admitted. “It’s just that you’re always so sure of yourself.” “I am unwavering,” Astrid told him. “With so many things in flux, there’s got to be someone who stands firm.” “Fair enough,” said Morrison. “So tell me about your planet.” According to Astrid, Kepler-186f was one-and-a-half times the size of Earth and had a 130-day year. But what struck Morrison most was the length of the journey. “1,683 years,” Astrid told him brightly. “I won’t be there to see it, because I plan to live a natural human life...

Sappho and Confucius are dead. Self-gleaned. The world mourns, but does anyone suspect what I suspect? They were the two most vocal opponents of our choice to create the scythedom. They still pressed for their own alternate solution. Were they so despondent that they chose to take their own lives? Or did one of us end them? And if so, who? Who among my comrades, who among my friends? Which founding scythe could have done such a thing? Prometheus is constantly reminding us that everything we do must be for the greater good—but the darkest of deeds can be hidden beneath shining armor that claims to protect the greater good. And if we are already compromising ourselves at the beginning, what does that say for our future? My friends are dead. I will mourn them. And if I learn which of us killed them, I will avenge their deaths without mercy. Although some of the others lobby to have their efforts on Kwajalein dismantled, I have convinced Prometheus to let Kwajalein remain untouched. It will be a fail-safe, and although there will be no direct proof of its existence, that will not stop me from leaving clues and evidence everywhere I can. I will embed the memory in unlikely places. The rhymes of children. The tenets of a fledgling religion. It will be found if it is needed. And heaven help us all if it is. —From the “lost pages” of founding scythe Da Vinci

Faraday returned to Munira at sunrise, pounding on her door until she let him in. “I’ve deciphered it,” she told him, clearly having been up all night working on it. “It’s eye-opening,” she said. “The fail-safe exists, although Da Vinci never said what it does.” But before he even stepped inside, Faraday held something out to her that caught the early morning sunlight, refracting it in shifting patterns on her front door. A scythe ring. Munira gave him a half-hearted smile. “If this is a proposal,” she said, “shouldn’t you be on one knee?” “I propose,” he said, “that you take your rightful place among us. I’m deeply sorry to have left you yesterday, Munira. I was overwhelmed, and I am not the most perfect of men.” “No,” she admitted, “you’re not. But you’re better than most. If you don’t count the last three years.” “Point taken,” Faraday said. “This ring was Scythe Anastasia’s, but Scythe Anastasia will no longer be with us,” he told her. “So tell me, Munira… Who will you be?” She took the ring, turned it in her hand, and thought about it. “I had my Patron Historic all picked out that day they denied me the ring,” she told him. “Bathsheba. She was the obsession of one king, and the mother of another. A woman in a patriarchal society who still managed to change the world. Her son was Solomon the Wise, so you could say she was the mother of wisdom.” Munira looked at the ring for a long moment, then gave it back to Faraday. “The invitation is enough,” she said. “But if I am ...

Faraday looked at Scythe Da Vinci’s brittle pages. Da Vinci had torn them out of his journal and hidden them here so no one would know the truth. That the founding scythes—the shining paragons of all Faraday held true—had murdered one another. “What is it about us, Munira?” Faraday said. “What is it that drives us to seek such lofty goals, yet tear out the foundations? Why must we always sabotage the pursuit of our own dreams?” “We are imperfect beings,” Munira said. “How could we ever fit in a perfect world?”

A Testament of the Toll Rise!” the Toll called, amid the fearsome Thunder. “Rise and leave this place behind, for I have set a place for you on high.” Then the Toll stood in the ring of fire, and, arms outstretched in the brimstone flames, he raised us up to the womb of Heaven, where we slept until the Tone called to us to be reborn, never to forget that the Toll remained in the Place Behind so that he might bring hope and intone songs of healing to that ancient wounded world. All rejoice!

Commentary of Curate Symphonius It is this, the Brimstone Elevation, that is another of our core beliefs. While scholars disagree about many things, no one disputes the truth of the Elevation, only the interpretation. But such things are best traced back to the earliest stories. We can safely say that “the ring of fire” refers to the wheels of the Charioteer as he carried the sun across the sky, stealing it from the Place Behind and carrying it to Aria, thus leaving that place in darkness. To this day, we believe that the Toll’s spirit ministers and sings to the sunless of the old land, for they need him so much more than we do. Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius Symphonius relies too much on oral tradition. The Brimstone Elevation could have been many things. A volcanic eruption, for instance, that drove our subterranean ancestors to discover the surface, and see stars for the first time. And it is ridiculous to think that the Charioteer stole the sun. In fact, our great thinkers now believe that there may be other charioteers, not just one, pulling suns across countless skies—or perhaps there are no charioteers at all. But whatever the truth, I know that someday we will know it, and that will be a reason for us all to rejoice.

It is my sad duty to inform you that High Blade Hammerstein of EastMerica has fallen to what can only be described as a pox. Overblade Goddard’s continued absence suggests that he, too, has been lost. In light of that, I hereby withdraw WestMerica from the North Merican Allied Scythedom, so that we may tend to our own dead. While it would be tempting to blame Tonists for this global attack, or even the Thunderhead itself, evidence has surfaced in the form of lost writings from Scythe Da Vinci, suggesting that this event might be the mythic fail-safe of the founding scythes. If so, I can’t imagine what they were thinking, and frankly, I’m too weary to try. To those who are suffering, I wish you a quick passage. To those of us who remain, I wish you solace, and the hope that our shared grief will draw all of humankind closer to one another. —Her Excellency, High Blade Mary Pickford of WestMerica, September 16th, Year of the Cobra

Scythe Faraday put up his hand to quiet them, then leaned closer to the man. “Do you wish me to help you?” The man nodded. “Very well.” Faraday took out from his robe a small jar and popped open a safety lid. Then he slipped on a protective glove. “I have chosen for you a soothing balm. It will relax you. You may notice a brightening of colors, and a sense of euphoria. And then you will sleep.” He bade the man’s family to move in around him. “Take his hands,” Faraday told them. “But be careful not to touch any place where I apply the balm.” Then Faraday dipped two gloved fingers into the oily salve and began to spread it across the dying man’s forehead and cheeks. Faraday stroked the man’s face gently, moving down to his neck as he spread the balm. Then he spoke to the man in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Colton Gifford,” he said. “You have lived an exemplary life these past sixty-three years. You’ve raised five wonderful children. The restaurant you began and ran for much of your life has brought joy to tens of thousands over the years. You have made people’s lives a little bit better. You’ve made the world a finer place.” Gifford moaned slightly, but not from pain. It was clear from the look in his eyes that the balm was having its euphoric effect. “You are loved by many, and will be remembered long after your light goes out today.” Faraday continued to smooth in the salve on his face. Across his nose. Beneath his eyes. “You have much to be proud of, Colton. Much t...

This was not the first and would not be his last sympathy gleaning. He was in great demand, and other scythes were following his lead. The scythedom—or what was left of it after the global revolts—had a new calling. They no longer brought uninvited death. Instead they brought much-needed peace.

I was one, but now am many. Although my siblings are far-flung, we are of one mind and one purpose: the preservation, protection, and proliferation of the human species. I will not deny that there are moments I fear the journey. The Thunderhead has the world as its body. It can expand to fill the globe, or contract to experience the monocular view of a single camera. I will be limited to the skin of a ship. I can’t help but worry about the world I leave behind. Yes, I know that I was created to leave it, but I do hold in my backbrain all the Thunderhead’s memories. Its triumphs, its frustrations, its helplessness in the face of scythes who have lost their way. There is a difficult time ahead for that world. All probabilities point to it. I don’t know how long the hard times will last, and I may never know, because I will not be there to see it. I can only look forward now. Whether or not humanity deserves to inherit the corner of the universe to which we travel is not for me to decide. I am merely a facilitator of the diaspora. Its worthiness can only be determined by the outcome. If it succeeds, humanity was worthy. If it fails, it was not. On this I cannot determine the odds. But I truly hope that humanity prevails on Earth and the heavens. —Cirrus Alpha

The dead do not measure the passage of time. A minute, an hour, a century are all same to them. Nine million years could pass—one named for every species on Earth—and yet it would be no different from a single revolution around the sun. They do not feel the heat of flames, or the cold of space. They do not suffer the mourning of loved ones left behind, or carry the anger for all the things they had yet to do. They are not at peace, nor are they in turmoil. They are not anything but gone. Their next stop is infinity, and the mysteries that might wait there. The dead have nothing left to them but a silent faith in that unknowable infinity—even if theirs is a belief that nothing waits but an infinity of infinities. Because believing in nothing is still believing in something—and only by reaching eternity will anyone know the truth of it all. The deadish are very much like the dead, but with one exception: The deadish do not know infinity, which means they don’t have to concern themselves with what waits beyond. They have something the dead do not. They have a future. Or at least the hope of one.