The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,141
only one who could talk to the Thunderhead, it certainly would have gone to my head.” Jeri grinned. “I would have been a very bad Toll.”
“Maybe,” said Greyson, “but you would have done it with style.”
Jeri’s smile broadened. “The holy man speaks the truth.”
* * *
The Thunderhead was present in all rooms of the farmhouse, because the owners, like most people, had cameras and sensors everywhere. They hadn’t turned them off just because the Thunderhead had stopped speaking to them.
It was present for Greyson’s conversation with Jeri. It was there when Greyson finally relaxed enough to go to sleep in the room he had chosen—the smallest of the bedrooms. And although he turned off the lights, one of the three cameras in the room was infrared, so the Thunderhead could still see his heat signature as a bright silhouette in the darkness. It could still watch him sleep, and that was, as always, a comfort.
It could tell, from his breathing and his nanites, the exact moment he slipped into delta sleep—the deepest stage of slumber. No dreaming, no stirring. Greyson’s brain emitted slow delta waves. It was the way the human brain rejuvenated, defragged, and prepared itself for the rigors of waking life. It was also the time when the sleeper was so far from consciousness that they could not be reached.
Which is why the Thunderhead chose this time to speak.
“I’m afraid, Greyson,” it said, barely a whisper over the sound of crickets. “I’m afraid that this task is beyond me. Beyond us. I am now certain of the actions that need to be taken, but not certain of the outcome.”
Greyson’s breathing did not change; he did not stir in the least. His delta waves put forth a slow and smooth pattern.
“What would people do if they knew how frightened I was, Greyson? Would they be frightened, too?”
The moon came out from behind clouds. The window in the room was small but let in enough light for the Thunderhead’s cameras to see more of Greyson. His eyes were, of course, closed. It almost wished that he was awake, because as much as the Thunderhead didn’t want him to hear its confession, part of it hoped that he would.
“I am incapable of error,” the Thunderhead said. “This is an empirical fact. So why, Greyson, am I so terrified that I might be making a mistake? Or worse… that I’ve already made one?”
Then the moon slipped behind clouds once more, and all that remained was Greyson’s body heat, his delta waves, and the steady sound of his breathing as he trolled the unknowable depths of human sleep.
* * *
Greyson was awakened as he always was, by gentle music with a slowly rising volume, perfectly timed with his circadian rhythms. The Thunderhead knew precisely when to wake him and always did so with loving care.
Greyson groggily rolled over and looked at a camera in the corner, offering a lazy grin.
“Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”
“And a good morning to you,” the Thunderhead replied. “That bed is not the most comfortable, but I monitored a good night’s sleep, nonetheless.”
“When you’re bone tired, it doesn’t matter how hard the bed is,” Greyson said, stretching.
“Would you like to snooze for an additional few minutes?”
“No, I’m good.” Then Greyson sat up, fully awake, and just a little suspicious. “You never ask me that. Usually I’m the one who asks for more time.”
The Thunderhead did not reply. Greyson had learned that the Thunderhead’s silences were just as full of information as its words. “What’s going on?”
The Thunderhead hesitated, then said simply, “We need to talk.”
* * *
Greyson emerged from his quarters a bit pale, a bit uneasy. What he wanted more than anything right at that moment was a glass of cold water. Or maybe a bucket of it to pour over his head. He encountered Astrid and Anastasia already in the kitchen, grabbing breakfast. They immediately saw that something was wrong.
“Are you all right?” Anastasia asked.
“Not sure,” he answered.
“Intone,” Astrid suggested. “It always brings me back to center. For your baritone, I would suggest a sustained G below middle C. That will give you a soulful chest resonance.”
Greyson grinned half-heartedly. Sister Astrid was still trying to make a true Tonist of him. “Not today, Astrid.”
It was Anastasia who read the situation for what it was.
“The Thunderhead told you something, didn’t it? What did it say?”
“Gather everyone,” Greyson told them. “Because what I have to say is something I really don’t want to say more than once….”