The procession halted at the entrance to the cave – a gaping triangular maw. It was here where they would be presented to the Toll …
… but even before the Toll arrived, the first person out of the cave made it abundantly clear to Anastasia that this ride was definitely going to be worth the price of admission.
When Scythe Morrison heard that an elegy of scythes was at the cave entrance, he was convinced that the North Merican scythedom had finally come for him. Goddard must have known he was alive, must have known what he’d been up to these past few years, and had sent this team to bring him in. He considered running, but there was only one exit from the cave. Besides, he wasn’t the same man he had been when he first began this service to the Toll. That junior scythe would save himself at the expense of all others. But this Scythe Morrison would face his capture bravely, defending the Toll to the last, as he had promised to do.
He stepped out first, as he always did, to assess the threat level and be generally intimidating, but he stopped short at the cave entrance when he saw a familiar turquoise robe. A robe he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.
Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded.
“You?” she said.
“No,” Morrison blurted, “not me! I mean, yes it’s me, but I’m not the Toll, I mean.” Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Anastasia.
“What are you even doing here?” she asked.
He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one.
The other scythe in her entourage – Amazonian by the look of his robe – chimed in, several beats behind the curve. “You mean to say you two know each other?”
But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder.
“As usual, you’re in the way, Morrison,” he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation.
Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them.
He stopped short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should.
“Okay,” said Scythe Anastasia. “Now I know I’ve lost my mind.”
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. It could have given him at least an inkling that he’d be seeing not only someone he knew, but the very individual who, in a way, was responsible for the strange path his life had taken. It couldn’t have told him directly, of course, but it could have given him hints and let him deduce it for himself. But then, even with a thousand clues, he would have marched into this encounter clueless.
He resolved not to give the Thunderhead the satisfaction of seeing him bug-eyed and slack-jawed. So when Anastasia suggested that she may have just lost her mind, he said, as nonchalantly as he could, “Endura rises! All rejoice!”
“Endura didn’t rise,” she said. “Just me.”
He held his formal expression for a moment more but couldn’t maintain it. He began to grin. “So you really are alive! I wasn’t sure if those broadcasts were real.”
“And … you two know each other as well?” said the Amazonian scythe.
“In a previous life,” said Anastasia.
Then one of her other travel companions began to laugh. “Well, isn’t this rich! A grand reunion of the dubiously deceased!”
Greyson’s attention lingered. There was something engaging about her. Or him.
Mendoza, trying to regain some decorum, cleared his throat, puffed up a bit, and spoke in his best stage voice. “His Sonority, the Toll, welcomes you all, and grants you an audience!” he declared.
“A private audience,” Greyson quietly prompted.
“A private audience!” boomed Mendoza, but he made no move to leave.
“Meaning,” said Greyson, “just between Scythe Anastasia and me.”
Mendoza turned to him, his eyes panicked. “I don’t think that’s wise. At least take Morrison with you for protection.”
But Morrison put up his hands in instant surrender. “Leave me out of this,” he said. “I’m not going up against Scythe Anastasia.”
The Thunderhead’s cameras whirred, and Greyson could swear it sounded like electronic laughter.
“Take the others in,” Greyson said, “and get them something to eat. They must be starving.” He turned to the Tonists around them who had witnessed this odd but momentous reunion. “All is well,” he told them, then gestured to Anastasia. “Walk with me.”
And the two of them stepped off together into the woods.
“‘Walk with me’?” said Anastasia when they were out of earshot. “Really? Could you be any more pretentious?”
“It’s part of the act,” Greyson told her.
“So you admit it’s an act!”
“The prophet part is – but it’s true that I’m not unsavory, and the Thunderhead really does speak to me.” He gave her a wry grin. “Maybe it’s my reward for saving your life that day and letting you hit me with your car.”
“It wasn’t my car,” Anastasia pointed out. “It was Scythe Curie’s. I was just learning how to drive it.”
“And a good thing, too! If you had been a better driver and had missed me, we’d have all been incinerated,” he pointed out. “So, does this mean that Scythe Curie is still alive, too?”
Anastasia’s heart sank at having to speak the truth aloud. She doubted it would ever be easier. “Marie died making sure I could eventually be revived.”
“Revived,” said Greyson. “That explains why you don’t look a day older than you did three years ago.”
She took a long look at him. He did look different, and it wasn’t just the outfit. His jaw seemed a little harder, his gait more confident, and his gaze so direct as to be invasive. He had learned to play this role well – just as she had learned to play hers.
“The last I heard, you refused the offer of sanctuary I arranged for you in Amazonia. So instead you stayed with the Tonists?”
His gaze became even more intrusive. Not judgmental, but possessing a deeper sight. A bit like the Thunderhead itself.
“Hiding out with the Tonists was your suggestion – or did you forget that?”
“No, I remember,” she told him, “but I never thought you’d stay. I never thought you’d become their prophet.” She looked over his vestments. “I can’t decide whether you look ridiculous or regal.”
“Both,” he told her. “The trick is convincing people that strange clothing makes you something more than ordinary. But you know all about that, don’t you?”
Anastasia had to admit he was right. The world treated you differently – defined you differently – when you wore robes or regalia.