The Toll-Man looked Jenna up and down. “Well, Missy. That’s a nice circlet of gold you have upon that pretty head of yours. I’ll take that.”
Jenna’s hands flew up to her gold circlet—the one that her mother, the Queen, had worn as a girl. “You can’t have that!”
she gasped.
The Toll-Man shrugged. “Then you can’t cross.”
With a heavy heart, Jenna reached up to take the circlet off. It was only an object, she told herself. Nicko was worth more than gold. Much
more. But the Toll-Man did not notice; he was already eyeing Beetle. “You, boy—I’ll have your timepiece,” he said.
Beetle looked shocked. “How do you know I’ve got a timepiece?” he asked.
The man paused, briefly wrong-footed. “I can hear it ticking,” he said. “Got an ear for ticking, I ’ave.”
Beetle frowned. He shot a questioning glance at Septimus, who returned it with a slight nod of his head. “And you, boy,” the Toll-Man said, turning to Septimus, “you’ve got a nice silver belt there with a few bits of gold on it. That’ll do me well enough. I’ll have the little trinkets inside, too.” The man regarded them all with his bright yellow smile. “You see—I’m a fair man. I don’t ask for what you haven’t got.” From his pocket he drew out a large velvet bag that hung from a collapsible wooden ring. With a practiced flick of the wrist he snapped the ring open and the bag hung down like an empty sock. Like the organ grinder’s monkey, the Toll-Man pushed the bag toward Septimus. “You first, boy. Put your belt in there.”
Very slowly, Septimus unbuckled his Apprentice belt, closely observed by the eager eye of the Toll-Man, who licked his teeth once again in anticipation. “’Urry up, boy. You won’t get across in daylight at this rate.” Septimus was fumbling with the last part of the buckle, partly because his cold fingers were clumsy and slow, but mainly because he needed time to think. Another Young Army saying was going around in his head: To win the fight, time it right. Time it right, he thought, gritting his teeth, time it…right!
With a click, the buckle finally snapped open and the Toll-Man leaned forward with his collecting bag. At that moment, to Jenna’s shock, Septimus sprang at the Toll-Man and knocked him to the ground. The man fell back into a thick patch of snow. Before he had time to push Septimus off, Beetle had piled on top of them and Jenna watched in horror as, like a giant snowball, the struggling trio rolled toward the edge of the precipice.
The Toll-Man was not big, but he was strong, and without Beetle’s weight—and willingness to land some good punches—Septimus would not have stood a chance. To Jenna’s relief, the snowball stopped just short of the edge with Septimus and Beetle on top of the Toll-Man. “Shove him over, Sep—now!” yelled Beetle.
“No!” yelled Jenna, horrified at the thought of pushing someone to his death. “No. You can’t do that. You can’t!”
It seemed that Jenna was right. As if buoyed by her shout—and the boys’ temporary loss of concentration—the Toll-Man found some extra strength. With an angry shove he threw Beetle off and sent him sprawling into the icy bank of the footpath. There was a sharp crack
as Beetle’s head met the wall of ice. He slumped down, a trickle of red running from behind his ear and staining the ice with a pinkish tinge.
Jenna glanced at Beetle. At least he was safe, and well away from the edge—Septimus was not. Septimus’s head was in fact hanging over the edge of the precipice, and the Toll-Man was about to make sure that the rest of him followed.
Septimus stared into the abyss, trying not to imagine how far the ground was below the fog. While he struggled against the relentless pushing from the Toll-Man—whose sharp intakes of breath he could feel on the back of his neck—Septimus wished more than ever that he had the Flyte Charm. He could see it so clearly, he could almost feel it in his hand. The little white wings of his own Charm that Marcia had given him, which had become part of the Flyte Charm, were fluttering…
Then suddenly, Septimus was
over the edge. As he began—incredibly slowly, so it seemed to him—to fall, he grabbed on to one of the bridge stanchions and there he hung, swinging above the abyss.
Uncaring now about whether the Toll-Man fell to his death or not, Jenna swung her fist at him and caught him by surprise. There was a thud as the man fell forward into the snow and knocked one of his gold teeth out. Blearily, he scrabbled in the snow to retrieve it.
Jenna’s face appeared over the edge of the precipice, white and scared, afraid of what she would see. “Take my hand, Sep. Quick.”
“No, Jen. I’ll pull you over too.”
Jenna looked fierce. “Just do it, Septimus!” she yelled.
Septimus did it. He grabbed Jenna’s hand and to their surprise he came up so easily that they both went staggering back into the snow.
The Toll-Man meanwhile had found his tooth, but when he picked up the bloodstained chunk of gold an expression of exasperation crossed his features and he threw the tooth away in disgust. This was not what he had come here for—what was he doing? But before he had time to answer his own question, two relentless forces met him and toppled him over the edge.
Jenna looked shocked at what they had done. “He’s gone,” she said.
Septimus was not so sure. Warily he leaned over the precipice to check. Suddenly a gloved hand shot up from the mist and grabbed Septimus’s cloak. Septimus lurched back and wrenched the hand away—the Toll-Man was hanging from the very same stanchion that Septimus had been. His angry eyes glared at Septimus. “There’s no escape, Apprentice,” he growled. “The Darkening is done.”
“Who…what are you?” asked Septimus.
The Toll-Man laughed. He pulled his left hand from his glove, which had frozen to the metal stanchion, and made another grab for him. Septimus caught the Toll-Man’s wrist in midair. On the Toll-Man’s little finger was exactly what he had expected to find: a small, black licorice snake.
“I’ll take that,” said Septimus. He pulled the band from the Toll-Man’s finger, whereupon the Toll-Man began a loud rant in what Septimus knew was Darke Tongue. It was foul. The Darke imprecations flew into his ears, wormed their way into his brain and tried to unsettle his mind, but Septimus remembered his Anti-Darke chants and muttered them over and over again while he fought to pry the remaining hand off the stanchion.
But still the Darke
shouts flowed and Septimus felt himself weakening. “Help me, Jen!” he yelled. The next moment Jenna was beside him, and together she and Septimus twisted the Toll-Man’s hand out of his glove. And then, suddenly it was done. All that remained of the Toll-Man was a pair of brown woolen gloves stuck to the stanchion—and a rapidly disappearing scream in the mist.
Jenna slumped down onto the ice and put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe we did that,” she said. She looked at Septimus, a horrified expression in her eyes. “Sep, we’ve just killed someone.”
“Yes,” said Septimus simply.
“But that’s awful,” said Jenna. “I…I never thought I would…”
Septimus looked at Jenna, his green eyes serious. “It’s a luxury, Jen,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Septimus stared at the scraped and bloody snow at his feet. It took him some moments to reply. “I mean…” he began slowly. “I mean that if you go through life and never face a situation where, in order for you to survive, someone else has to die, then you’re lucky. That’s what I mean.”
“That’s terrible, Sep.”
Septimus shrugged. “Sometimes that is how it is. I learned that in the Young Army. It’s either the chief cadet in the wolverine pit, or you.”
Jenna shook her head very slowly, still not able to believe what she had done.
“Jen—look. Does this make you feel better?” asked Septimus quietly. He held out a small black licorice snake ring.
“Oh.”
“It was on his left little finger. It was the Thing, Jen. It was him or us. And it had to be us—you know it did.”
“It was the Toll-Man too,” said Jenna.
“Yes. I know.”
Slowly, Septimus got to his feet and gingerly approached the precipice. He stood as near as he dared then, and murmuring an Anti-Darke chant, he crushed the licorice ring between his fingers and sprinkled it into the void.