The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,42
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?”
“I can,” the Thunderhead said a bit pedantically. “But you may want to clarify it for yourself.”
Greyson laughed. “Okay, then. The curates see themselves as my handlers, you see me as your mouthpiece in the world—”
“I see you as much more than that, Greyson.”
“Do you? Because if you did, you’d allow me to have an opinion. You’d allow me to contribute. And the advice I gave today was my way of contributing.”
“I see.”
“Have I clarified that for myself sufficiently?”
“Indeed, you have.”
“And was my suggestion to him a good one?”
The Thunderhead paused. “I will concede that giving him freedom and artistic license outside of structured boundaries may help him find fulfillment. So, yes, your suggestion was a good one.”
“So there you go! Maybe you’ll start allowing me to contribute a little bit more.”
“Greyson…” said the Thunderhead.
He sighed, certain that the Thunderhead was going to give him some sort of patient, long-suffering lecture for daring to have opinions. But instead, what the Thunderhead said surprised him.
“I know this hasn’t been easy. I marvel at how you’ve grown into this position you’ve been thrust into. I marvel at how you’ve grown, period. Choosing you could not have been a more correct choice.”
Greyson found himself moved. “Thank you, Thunderhead.”
“I’m not sure you realize the significance of what you’ve accomplished, Greyson. You have taken a cult that despised technology and have caused them to embrace it. To embrace me.”
“The Tonists never hated you,” Greyson pointed out. “They hate scythes. They were on the fence about you – but now you fit within their dogma. ‘The Tone, the Toll, and the Thunder.’”
“Yes, the Tonists do so love alliteration.”
“Be careful,” Greyson warned, “or they’ll start building temples to you and cutting out hearts in your name.” Greyson almost laughed imagining it. How frustrating it would be to make human sacrifices, only to have your sacrifices return the next day with brand-new hearts.
“There is power to their beliefs,” the Thunderhead said. “Yes, those beliefs could be dangerous if not properly directed and shaped – and so we shall shape them. We shall mold the Tonists into a force that can benefit humanity.”
“Are you sure that can be done?” Greyson asked.
“I can say with 72.4% certainty that we can wield the Tonists toward a positive end.”