The Toll: Part Two

These first lines of the account of the Toll’s life set forth the basis of Tonist belief that the Toll was not born, but existed in a non-corporeal form until the Great Resonance caused him to coalesce into flesh.

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.

He knew that the greats suffered for their art. He tried to suffer. When he was a teenager, hearing that Van Gogh had shorn off an ear in a fit of delusional pique, he tried it himself.

Toll was not a wizened man—he seemed little more than a boy.

He expected the Toll to slough off the question with more smoke and mirrors. Platitudes about leaps of faith and the like.

Ezra dropped to his knees. Not because he was told to by some officious curate, but because he now knew that the Toll was what he claimed him to be.

There is no question that the Toll had a grand and glorious throne, most likely made of gold, although some have posited that it was made of the gold-plated bones of the vanquished wicked of Lenape, a mythical city.

“You know me better than anyone. In fact, you know everyone better than anyone, and you can’t figure out why I did it?”
“I can,” the Thunderhead said a bit pedantically.

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?”

“But a modicum of desperation is not a bad thing if it leads to productive soul-searching.”

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.

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.

Usually Greyson would try to break the ice with conversation, but it always ended up being stilted and awkward.

It had been quite the subterfuge keeping their unexpected find a secret—because within moments of finding the two bodies, the Spence was forcibly boarded by a horde of infuriated scythes.

“We have conquered racism by blending the world into a single people, combining all the finest qualities of every genetic ethnicity...but there are those—particularly in fringe areas—whose genetic indices are skewed heavily in one direction. And worse, there are some who actually attempt to increase a genetic leaning in their children by choice of mate. If I had my druthers, perhaps I would glean these genetic outliers, and thereby create a more homogeneous society.”

“Thus,” he said, “our inexorable descent continues.”

He had applied for early admission to a dozen earth-bound universities. He had no specific path in mind; he merely wanted to go elsewhere. Be elsewhere. Be someone new. What a thrill that would be! A sublime escape from the drudgery of colonial life.

His arms and legs move almost of their own volition, reacting to the anxiety of the dream.

Now Goddard paces, whipping his fury into a caustic meringue.

Perhaps this wayward Tonist was just here to make a point—but there will be others with more deadly agendas.

“If you wish to remain in my service, you’ll stop trying to placate me like a child,” he tells her, “and you’ll do what I ask you to do.”

King, queen, empress, protector—whatever title you choose, it’s all the same. Regardless, it would ostensibly be my world.

I would make the rules, define the parameters of right and wrong. I would be the de facto authority over it, as you are.

Let the secrets of the founders remain hidden for all eternity. It serves them right for leaving it so well concealed. It was their choice to consign it to myth and nursery rhyme. To bury it in esoteric maps locked in arcane rooms.

Kwajalein was his find. His triumphant discovery. The Thunderhead had brazenly jumped his claim.

He was only jaded then. He didn’t yet loathe the world, just mildly disliked it. It was Citra who had rousted him out of his complacency.

But rather than being fearful, the workers just seemed blasé.
“It never happens to us,” they would say, “or to anyone we know.”

Modern amenities juxtaposed with ancient stone bulwarks made the place both comfortable and intimidating at once.

She explored with the pretext of curiosity, but really she was just looking for Rowan.

She was so full of fury and rancor, spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.

He shared bread and fellowship with the believer, the magician, and the mauler, for all were of equal timbre to the Toll.

Only the Toll could have united such disparate voices into a coherent sound pleasing to the Tone.

But most egregious, in my opinion, is that Symphonius missed that the Toll sitting “in the cradle of the Great Fork in the springtime of his life” is an obvious fertility reference.

And the Toll, with a stagey, beatific gesture meant to mildly mock the entire process, raised his hand and pointed to the only wrong answer on the test: the abbey.

Perhaps because he was still the Toll, clothed in those itchy, embroidered vestments.

But at least they were better than the zealots—who were becoming so extreme, there was a new name for them: Sibilants. A torturous, distorted sound, unpleasant to all.

Greyson’s only respite from reverence was Sister Astrid, who, in spite of her fervent belief that he was a prophet, didn’t treat him like one.

However, to suggest that they devoured souls is a stretch even for Symphonius, who tends to prefer hearsay and conjecture to evidence.

“Forgive me, Your Sonority,” he said. “I was out of line.”
But even to him it sounded far more sycophantic than sincere.

The Cloisters did not have a dungeon. It was only designed to resemble a medieval structure, not actually function as one. Instead, Morrison was relegated to what must have been someone’s office in the days when the place had been a museum.