The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,41
looked at it through the lens of Tonist beliefs; the Thunderhead—all cold, hard science—had been transformed into something greater by the Living Tone. And, as such things often fell into groups of three, there needed to be a human element to complete the triad. And there he was, Greyson Tolliver, the one human being who spoke to the living Thunder.
Mendoza began by dropping rumors in key trigger points about the existence of a mystical figure who conversed with the Thunderhead. A Tonist prophet who was the link between the spiritual and the scientific. Greyson was dubious, but Mendoza was passionate and persuasive.
“Imagine it, Greyson: The Thunderhead will speak through you, and in time the world will hang on your every word. Isn’t that what the Thunderhead wants? For you to be its voice in the world?”
“I don’t exactly have a voice of thunder,” Greyson pointed out.
“You can whisper, and people will still hear thunder,” Mendoza told him. “Trust me.”
Then Mendoza set out to create a more organized hierarchy to the Tonist calling that might bring together the various divergent factions—which was easier with an individual to rally around.
Mendoza—who had, for many years, led a quiet, unexamined life as the head of the monastery in Wichita—was now back in his element as a master of public relations and branding. The Toll was his new product, and there was nothing more exciting to him than the thrill of the sale—especially when it was a one-of-a-kind item in a global market.
“All you need now is a title,” Mendoza had told Greyson. “One that fits with Tonist beliefs… or at least can be made to fit.”
It was Greyson who came up with “the Toll,” and, as it was actually part of his last name, it almost felt preordained. He was rather proud of himself, until people actually started calling him that. And to make it worse, Mendoza invented a pompous honorific, referring to him as “Your Sonority.” Greyson actually had to ask the Thunderhead what it meant.
“From the Latin sonoritas, meaning ‘the quality of being resonant,’ ” it told him. “It has a certain… ring.” Which made Greyson groan.
People took to it, and before long everything was “Yes, Your Sonority,” “No, Your Sonority,” “How might I please you today, Your Sonority?” It all felt so strange. After all, he was no different than he had been. And yet here he was posing as some sort of divine sage.
Next, Mendoza arranged the dramatic spot for his audiences, only one supplicant at a time, because it kept him from being overexposed, and limiting access nurtured the growing mystique.
Greyson tried to draw the line at the formal ceremonial clothing that Mendoza had commissioned from some famous designer, but by then the train had already left the station.
“Throughout history the most powerful religious figures have always had distinctive clothing, so why shouldn’t you?” Mendoza argued. “You need to look elevated and otherworldly, because, in a way, you are. You are unique among human beings now, Greyson—you need to dress the part.”
“This is all a little theatrical, don’t you think?” Greyson commented.
“Ah, but theater is the hallmark of ritual, and ritual is the touchstone of religion,” Mendoza responded.
Greyson thought the scapular that hung over his purple tunic, with all its embroidered waves, was a bit much, but no one was laughing—and when he first began giving formal audiences to people, he was shocked by how awestruck they were. The supplicants fell to their knees, speechless before him. They trembled just to be in his presence. It turned out that Mendoza was right; looking the part sold it—and people bought it just as thoroughly as they bought blue polar bears.
And so, with his legend growing, Greyson Tolliver spent his days as His Sonority, the Toll, consoling desperate, starstruck people and passing along wise advice from the Thunderhead.
Except, of course, when he made shit up.
* * *
“You lied to him,” the Thunderhead said to Greyson after his audience with the artist. “I never suggested that he paint in unsanctioned places, or that he would find fulfillment in doing so.”
Greyson shrugged. “You never said he wouldn’t.”
“The information I gave you about his life was to prove your authenticity, but lying to him undermines that.”
“I wasn’t lying; I was giving him advice.”
“Yet you didn’t wait for my input. Why?”
Greyson leaned back in his chair. “You know me better than anyone. In fact, you know everyone better than anyone, and you can’t figure out why I did it?”