The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,156
this as a dream. I hope the captain will forgive me for taking this liberty, but there was no other choice, time is of the essence, and I could not ask. All I can ask for now is forgiveness. Through you.”
The Thunderhead turned from the sunrise to Greyson, and finally he could see the Thunderhead in Jeri’s eyes. That patient consciousness that watched him sleep all these years. That protected him. That loved him.
“I was right to fear this,” the Thunderhead said. “So enticing it is, so overwhelming to be ensconced in living, breathing flesh. I could see how I’d never want to let go.”
“But you have to.”
“I know,” said the Thunderhead. “And now I know that I’m stronger than the temptation. I didn’t know if I would be, but now that I’ve faced it, I know.” The Thunderhead spun, nearly losing its balance, almost giddy with all the overpowering sensations. “Time passes so slowly, so smoothly,” it said. “And the atmospheric conditions! A tailwind at 8.6 kilometers per hour easing the flow of twenty-nine knots, the air at 70% humidity, but the numbers are nothing compared to the feel of it upon the skin.”
The Thunderhead looked at him once more, this time truly taking him in. “So limited, so focused. How magnificent to screen out all the data that doesn’t make you feel.” Then the Thunderhead reached a beckoning hand toward him. “One more thing, Greyson. One more thing I must experience.”
Greyson knew what the Thunderhead wanted. He knew from the look in Jeri’s eyes; it didn’t need to tell him. And although his emotions were so mixed as to chafe against one another, Greyson knew the Thunderhead needed this more than he needed to resist. So he fought against his own hesitation, took Jeri’s hand, and pressed it gently to his cheek, letting the Thunderhead feel it – feel him – with the tips of Jeri’s fingers.
The Thunderhead gasped. Froze in place, all its attention in those fingertips moving ever so slightly across Greyson’s cheek. Then it locked eyes with him once more.
“It’s done,” the Thunderhead said. “I’m ready. Now I can move forward.”
And Jeri collapsed into Greyson’s arms.
Jerico Soberanis did not handle helplessness well. The moment Jeri was aware of being in Greyson’s arms with no explanation, Jeri was quick to flip the situation. And Greyson.
In an instant, Jeri got the upper hand, knocked Greyson’s legs out from under him, and slammed him down faceup, pinning him hard against the rusty iron deck.
“What are you doing? Why are we on deck?” Jeri demanded.
“You were sleepwalking,” said Greyson, making no move to squirm out from under Jeri’s grip.
“I don’t sleepwalk.” But Jeri knew that Greyson wouldn’t lie about such a thing. Still, there was something he wasn’t saying. And then there was the dream. It was a strange one. It was on the verge of memory, but Jeri couldn’t quite access it.
Jeri got off of Greyson, a bit embarrassed by the overreaction. Greyson wasn’t a threat. By the look of things, he was only trying to help.
“I’m sorry,” Jeri said, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Did I hurt you?”
Greyson offered his usual guileless grin. “Not nearly enough,” he said, which made Jeri laugh.
“My, but you do have a wicked side!”
Bits and pieces of the dream were coming back. Enough to suspect it might have been a little more than sleepwalking. And now when Jeri looked at Greyson there was an uncanny sense of connection. It had been there since the moment Jeri met him – but now it seemed a little different. It seemed to go further back in time than it had before. Jeri wanted to keep looking at him, and wondered what that was about.
There was also an odd sense of being intruded upon. It wasn’t as if anything had been stolen … more of a sense that furniture had been rearranged by an uninvited hand.
“It’s early still,” Greyson said. “We should go below. We’ll be arriving in Guam in a few hours.”
So Jeri reached out a hand to help Greyson up … and found that even after Greyson was on his feet, Jeri didn’t want to let go.
The bowie knife is a brutish, boorish weapon. Crude. A thing suitable for a mortal-age brawl. Offensive. Perhaps appropriate for the Sandbar Fight, where its namesake first used it, but is there a place for it in the post-mortal world? A butcher knife? Appalling. Yet every LoneStar scythe swears by it. Their only method of gleaning.