The new pastry chef was supposed to be a culinary genius. And he was. Or at least he was until Scythe Morrison gleaned him and took his place. The truth was, three weeks ago, Scythe Morrison could barely boil water, much less bake a soufflé – but a crash course in dessert making gave him enough basics to fake his way through the short time he needed – and he even had developed a few specialties. He made a mean tiramisu and killer strawberry cheesecake.
He was nervous the first couple of days, and although his inexperienced hands bumbled quite a lot in the kitchen, it turned out to be an effective smoke screen. All new servants here were nervous when they arrived – and, thanks to the severe eye of Sister Astrid, they remained nervous for their entire tenure. Morrison’s awkwardness around the kitchen would be read as normal under the circumstances.
Eventually they’d realize that he wasn’t the chef they thought he was, but he didn’t have to keep up the charade for long. And when he was done, all these nervous little Tonists would be freed from service. Because the holy man they served was about to be gleaned.
“The Thunderhead has been behaving strangely,” Greyson told Sister Astrid, who dined with him that night. There was always someone there to dine with, because they didn’t want the Toll to ever have to dine alone. Last night it was a visiting curate from Antarctica. The night before it was a woman who created graceful tuning forks for home altars. Rarely was it someone who Greyson actually wanted to dine with, and rarely could he be Greyson. He had to be “on” as the Toll at every meal. Annoying, because his vestments stained easily and were virtually impossible to get as clean as the role demanded, so they were constantly being replaced. He would much prefer to dine in jeans and a T-shirt, but he feared he’d never have that luxury again.
“What do you mean ‘strangely’?” Sister Astrid asked.
“Repeating itself,” Greyson said. “Doing things that are … unwanted. It’s kind of hard to put my finger on. It’s just … not itself.”
Astrid shrugged. “The Thunderhead’s the Thunderhead – it behaves the way it behaves.”
“Spoken like a true Tonist,” Greyson said. He hadn’t meant it as mocking, but Astrid took it that way.
“What I mean is that the Thunderhead is a constant. If there’s something it’s doing that doesn’t make sense to you, then maybe you’re the problem.”
Greyson grinned. “You’ll make an excellent curate one day, Astrid.”
The server put dessert before them. Strawberry cheesecake.
“You should try it,” Astrid told Greyson. “And tell me if it’s any better than the last chef’s.”
Greyson took a small piece on his fork and tasted it. It was perfect.
“Wow,” he told Astrid. “We finally have a decent dessert chef!”
If nothing else, it purged the Thunderhead from his mind for the few minutes it took to devour it.
Scythe Morrison understood why the gleaning of the Toll needed to be done bloodlessly, and from the inside, rather than a frontal attack. The Tonists guarding the Toll would die for their prophet and were well armed with illegal mortal-age weaponry. They would fight back in ways that ordinary people didn’t – so even if an assassination team were successful, the world would know the resistance the Tonists put up. The world must never see that level of resistance against the scythedom. Until now, the best course of action was to just ignore the Toll’s existence. The scythedoms of the world hoped that by treating him as insignificant, he would be insignificant. But apparently he had become important enough for Goddard to desire his removal. To keep it from being some high-profile, overwrought event, a one-man infiltration was the best way to do it.
The beauty of the plan rested on the Tonists’ own self-confidence. They had vetted the new pastry chef extensively before he was approved for the job. It was so easy to alter Morrison’s ID and simply slip into the man’s shoes after the Tonists were sure it was safe.
He had to admit he was enjoying his position and liked baking much more than he thought he would. Maybe he’d make it his hobby once his business here was done. Hadn’t Scythe Curie cooked meals for the families of those she’d gleaned? Perhaps Scythe Morrison could make them dessert.
“Be sure to always bake extra,” the sous chef had advised him on his first day there. “The Toll gets the munchies during the night. And it’s usually for something sweet.”
Priceless information.
“In that case,” Morrison had said, “I’ll be sure to make desserts that he can’t get enough of.”
A Testament of the Toll
The Toll faced countless enemies, both in this life and beyond it. When the harbinger of death breached his sanctuary, and wrapped its cold hand around his throat, he refused to yield. Clothed in the rough-and-weathered blue shroud of the grave, death dug its talons into him, and yea, though it stole his earthly existence, it was not the Toll’s end. Instead, he was elevated above this world to a higher octave. All rejoice!
Commentary of Curate Symphonius
Do not be misled – death itself is not the enemy, for it is our belief that natural death must come to all in their time. Unnatural death is that of which this verse speaks. It is another reference to scythes, which most assuredly did exist – supernatural beings who devoured the souls of the living in order to gain dark magical powers. That the Toll could fight such beings is evidence of his own divinity.
Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius
There is no disputing that scythes existed in the time of the Toll, and for all we know they may still exist in the Places Behind. However, to suggest that they devoured souls is a stretch even for Symphonius, who tends to prefer hearsay and conjecture to evidence. It is important to note that scholars have reached a general consensus that scythes did not devour the souls of their victims. They merely consumed their flesh.
23
How to Glean a Holy Man
The Toll was not supposed to tread the halls and courtyards of the Cloisters alone. The curates were constantly telling Greyson this. They were like overprotective parents. Did he have to remind them that there were dozens of guards around the perimeter and on the rooftops? That the Thunderhead’s cameras were constantly watching? What the hell were they worried about?
It was a little past two a.m. when Greyson rolled out of bed and put his slippers on.
“What’s wrong, Greyson?” the Thunderhead said, even before he was fully out of bed. “Is there something I can do for you?”
More strangeness. It was unlike the Thunderhead to speak without provocation.
“Just having trouble sleeping,” he told it.
“Perhaps it’s intuition,” the Thunderhead said. “Perhaps you’re sensing something unpleasant that you can’t quite put your finger on.”
“The only thing unpleasant that I can’t put my finger on lately is you.”
The Thunderhead had no response to that.
“If you’re unsettled, might I suggest a long-distance journey to calm your nerves?”
“What, right now? In the middle of the night?”
“Yes.”