The Toll: Part Four

The sanctimonious Sibilants who would wage unwarranted war were an abomination to the Toll.

No two sects of Sibilants were alike. Each one was its own unique aberration, with its own frightening interpretations of Tonist doctrine and twistings of the Toll’s words.

The only thing they all had in common was a propensity for violence and intolerance—including the intolerance of other Tonists, for any sect that did not believe precisely as they did was clearly lesser.

No one asked questions of Tonists for fear that they’d start espousing their beliefs.

He knew he was the linchpin holding it all together, and although there were times that he actually believed his own faith, that always got trampled by the practicality of getting the job done.

Mendoza also worked in the shadows, spreading many of the false rumors about the Toll. They were amazingly helpful in keeping the flock engaged—and in keeping scythes disengaged—because how could scythes give any credence to Toll sightings when most of them were flights of fancy?

And then, when the rest of them did sit down for dinner, the tone in the room bordered on dour. Not tense, but heavy. As if the burden of the world, which rested firmly on their shoulders, had doubled.

Yet in spite of all that, those who supported Goddard were also galvanized, insisting that “those people” at the stadium deserved gleaning—because anyone who would want to witness an execution deserved what they got.

Some other experiments didn’t fare as well. Such as the “pensive collective” in RossShelf—the Charter Region in Antarctica—where the Thunderhead introduced mind-link technology that allowed everyone to read everyone else’s minds.

You began your rampage because you believed the scythedom needed a dramatic overhaul.

Today’s piece is an orchestral wonder. A requiem conceived of, and performed by, sibilant followers of the Tone, the Thunder, and the martyred Toll. A requiem performed in response to the Mile High gleaning an ocean away.

Used to be that the Thunderhead would talk to them and explain the nuances of the situation they were about to get into. Now it just sounded an alarm, programmed their GPSs, and let them figure the rest out for themselves.

“I’ve had dealings with many Tonists, and never once have I known them to be violent. Annoying and strident, maybe, but never violent.”

Words lied. Words connived, they dissembled with impunity, they slandered, and, above all, they offended the purity of the Tone.

Words lied. Words connived, they dissembled with impunity, they slandered, and, above all, they offended the purity of the Tone.

They piled into the palace, where half a dozen BladeGuards closed the ponderous bronze doors behind them and took up defensive positions, should the Tonists break through.

If the curate had his way, language itself would be outlawed and replaced by wordless adulation to Tone, Toll, and Thunder.

This pompous, cowardly scythe—this purveyor of unnatural death—was now going to plead for his life.

Eight of us firmly believe that an association of humans should be responsible for the thinning of the burgeoning population.

Attacked by the peeved bats, the Tonists were chased out, where they were faced, not by a phalanx of BladeGuards, as they had expected, but by four figures, one of whom was dressed in rich violet under a flowing scapular down which sound waves spilled like a waterfall.

Then he knelt in obeisance before the Toll could even speak, terrified of what truth might be told.

And one by one, they all knelt before the Toll, lowering their heads in supplication, some even prostrating themselves on the forest floor.

“But you’re not infallible. Only I am infallible. So, if you’re asking me if it’s possible for you to make errors in judgment, the answer is yes. You make errors all the time...as does every other human being who has ever lived. Error is an intrinsic part of the human condition—and it is something I deeply love about humankind.”

“I don’t want to forgive them,” he told Mendoza before he went out.
“Granting them absolution brings them into the fold,” Mendoza said.

He didn’t quote platitudes, he didn’t insist on traveling in groups of seven or twelve, and he definitely did not intone. He did go by Brother Ezra, however—that was the only concession he made to his calling.

Those Sibilants were now beyond repentant, prostrating themselves in his presence and professing their unworthiness to even grovel at his feet.

It was less disturbing than the idea of the Thunderhead choosing a Tonist as its liaison to humanity. It did make sense that the Thunderhead would keep one point of connection with humankind, but why a Tonist?

As they finally neared the cave, they were accosted by Tonists standing guard.

Greyson knew that the Thunderhead must have been enjoying this moment immensely—he could see its cameras whirring on the nearby trees, taking in everyone’s expressions, swiveling back and forth to see this absurd little tableau from every angle.

Mendoza, trying to regain some decorum, cleared his throat, puffed up a bit, and spoke in his best stage voice...

“Ah, the wonderful limitations of the biological brain!” the Thunderhead said wistfully. “The remarkable ability to dispense with the unnecessary, rather than filing every little thing into a cumbersome compendium!”

There was a sort of ritualistic practice that allowed a Nimbus agent to speak with a scythe without breaking the law. A trialogue it was called. It involved a professional go-between who was well versed in scythe/state protocols.

Then the Thunderhead explained to Greyson how Jeri saw gender, a thing as varied as the wind and ephemeral as clouds.

The lush green hills of County Warwickshire had been the inspiration for many mortal-age writers and artists. It was the birthplace of Shakespeare; it was Tolkien’s bucolic Shire. The countryside was almost as beautiful as he.

"...I don’t have any wisdom for you. Perhaps you could consult my journals in Alexandria,” he said. “Although I’ve been remiss about submitting them....”

Regions that had allied with him were hedging and even pulling their support—as if he was nothing more than a mortal-age despot who had fallen out of favor.

And now he had brought them to the brink of a better world! A world without Tonists, or genetic outliers, or lazy parasites who contributed nothing of value to society. A world where the unsightly, unseemly, and unredeemable were put down by those who knew best.

“There is no question that we are at war now,” he told the others. “But I have every faith that we will triumph.”
To which Astrid gave a somewhat facetious “All rejoice.”

With a heavy heart, I say farewell to High Blade Tenkamenin and all those ended by the Tonist scourge.

And although immunity was promised to their immediate families, scythe policy had changed. When it came to immunity, the North Merican Allied Scythedom had adopted an opt-in paradigm. If you were owed immunity, you had to approach the office of the scythedom and request it.