فصل 13

A Testament of the Toll

His seat of mercy rested at the mouth of Lenape, and there he would proclaim the truth of the Tone. Awesome was he in his splendor, such that even the slightest whisper from his lips would peal like thunder. Those who experienced his presence were changed forever and went out into the world with new purpose, and to those who doubted, he offered forgiveness. Forgiveness even for a bringer of death, for whom he did sacrifice his life, in his youth, only to rise again.  All rejoice.

Commentary of Curate Symphonius

There is no question that the Toll had a grand and glorious throne, most likely made of gold, although some have posited that it was made of the gold-plated bones of the vanquished wicked of Lenape, a mythical city. Speaking of which, it is important to note that le nappe, in the French language spoken by some in ancient times, means “the tablecloth,” thus implying that the Toll set a table before his enemies. The mention here of a bringer of death refers to supernatural demons called scythes, who he redeemed from darkness. Like the Tone itself, the Toll could not die, so a life-sacrifice would always lead to the Toll’s resurrection, making him unique among the people of his day.

Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius

The key insight that Symphonius misses here is that the mention of his seat resting “at the mouth of Lenape” clearly means that the Toll waited at the entrance to the city, catching those that the seething metropolis would otherwise devour.  As for the death bringer, there is evidence to suggest that such individuals did exist, supernatural or not, and that they were indeed called scythes. Therefore, it is not far-fetched to think that the Toll might have saved a scythe from his or her evil ways. And in this instance, I do, for once, agree with Symphonius that the Toll was unique in the ability to return from death. For if everyone could return from death, why would we need the Toll at all?

13 The Quality of Being Resonant

If Greyson had anyone to thank—or blame—for becoming the Toll, it was Curate Mendoza. He had been key in shaping Greyson’s new image. Yes, it had been Greyson’s idea to “go public” and let the world know he still had a connection to the Thunderhead—but it was Mendoza who finessed the reveal.

The man was a skilled strategist. Before souring on eternal life and becoming a Tonist curate, he had worked in marketing for a soft drink company.

“I came up with the blue polar bear for AntarctiCool Soda,” he had once told Greyson. “There weren’t even polar bears in Antarctica, much less blue ones, so we engineered some. Now you can’t even think of Antarctica without thinking of their blue bears, can you?” There were many who thought that the Thunderhead was dead—that what the Tonists called the Great Resonance was the sound of it dying. Mendoza, however, offered an alternate explanation to the Tonists.

“The Thunderhead has been visited by the resonant spirit,” he posited. “The Living Tone has breathed life into what had once been artificial thought.” It made sense if you 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?” “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.” “And what about the rest?”

“There is a 19% chance that the Tonists will do nothing of any value,” the Thunderhead told him, “and an 8.6% chance that they will damage the world in an unpredictable way.” The Toll’s next audience was not a pleasant one. At first there were just a few extremist zealots coming to him for an audience, but now it seemed to be a daily occurrence. They found ways of twisting Tonist teachings, as well as misinterpreting every little thing Greyson said or did.

The Toll rising early did not mean people should be punished for sleeping late.

His eating eggs did not imply a fertility rite was called for.

And a day of quiet brooding did not mean a permanent vow of silence was required.

Tonists wanted so desperately to believe in something that the things they chose to believe were sometimes absurd, other times naive, and, when it came to zealots, downright terrifying.

Today’s extreme believer was emaciated, as if he had been on a hunger strike, and had a crazed look in his eyes. He spoke about ridding the world of almonds—and all because Greyson once mentioned in passing that he didn’t care for them. Apparently the wrong ears heard and spread the word. It turns out that wasn’t the only scheme the man had.

“We must strike terror into the cold hearts of scythes, so they submit to you,” the zealot said. “With your blessing, I will burn them one by one, just as their rebel, Scythe Lucifer, did.” “No! Absolutely not!” The last thing Greyson wanted to do was antagonize scythes. As long as he didn’t get in their way, they didn’t bother him, and it needed to stay that way. Greyson rose from his chair and stared the man down. “There won’t be any killing in my name!” “But there must be! The Tone sings to my heart and tells me so!”

“Get out of here!” Greyson demanded. “You don’t serve the Tone, or the Thunder, and you definitely don’t serve me!” The man’s shock turned to contrition. He folded as if under some heavy weight. “I’m sorry if I have offended you, Your Sonority. What can I do to earn your favor?” “Nothing,” Greyson said. “Do nothing. That will make me happy.”

The zealot retreated, bowing as he walked backward. As far as Greyson was concerned, he couldn’t leave fast enough.

The Thunderhead approved of how he had dealt with the zealot. “There have always been, and will always be, those who exist on the fringe of reason,” the Thunderhead told Greyson. “They must be set straight early and often.” “If you started speaking to people again, maybe they wouldn’t behave so desperately,” Greyson dared to suggest.

“I realize that,” the Thunderhead said. “But a modicum of desperation is not a bad thing if it leads to productive soul-searching.” “Yeah, I know: ‘The human race must face the consequences of its collective actions.’ ” It’s what the Thunderhead always told him about its silence.

“More than that, Greyson. Humankind must be pushed out of the nest if it is ever to grow beyond its current state.” “Some birds that get pushed out of the nest just die,” Greyson pointed out.

“Yes, but for humankind, I have engineered a soft landing. It will be painful for a while, but it will build global character.” “Painful for them, or for you?”

“Both,” the Thunderhead replied. “But my pain must not prevent me from doing the right thing.” And although Greyson trusted the Thunderhead, he kept finding himself coming back to those odds: an 8.6 percent chance that Tonists would damage the world. Maybe the Thunderhead was okay with those odds, but Greyson found them troubling.

After a full day of monotonous audiences, mostly with devout Tonists who wanted simplistic answers about mundane matters, he was carried off by a nondescript speedboat that had been stripped of every comfortable amenity to make its extravagance feel suitably austere. It was flanked by two other boats, both of which bore burly Tonists armed with mortal-age weapons, to defend the Toll should someone try to abduct him or end him while in transit.

Greyson thought the precautions ridiculous. If there were any plots out there, the Thunderhead would thwart them, or at the very least warn him—unless, of course, it wanted them to succeed, as it had the first time he was kidnapped. Still, after that first kidnapping, Mendoza was paranoid about it, so Greyson entertained his fears.

The boat rounded the glorious southern tip of Lenape City and bounced its way up the Mahicantuck River—although many still called it the Hudson—toward his residence. Greyson sat below in the small cabin, along with a nervous Tonist girl whose job it was to see to whatever he might need during the journey. Each day there was someone new. It was considered a high honor to ride with the Toll to his residence—a reward bestowed upon the most devout, most righteous of Tonists. Usually Greyson would try to break the ice with conversation, but it always ended up being stilted and awkward.

He suspected that Mendoza was making a pathetic attempt at providing intimate companionship for the evening—because all the young Tonists who made the journey were attractive and roughly Greyson’s age. If that was Mendoza’s aim, it failed, because Greyson never made a single advance, even when he might have felt inclined. It would have been the sort of hypocrisy he could not abide. How could Greyson be their spiritual leader if he took advantage of the position?

All sorts of people were throwing themselves at him now, to the point that it was embarrassing—and although he shied away from the ones Mendoza put in his path, he did accept occasional companionship when he felt it wasn’t an abuse of his power. His greatest attraction, however, was for women who were too unsavory for their own good. It was a taste he had developed after his brief time with Purity Viveros, a murderous girl who he had come to love. Things had not ended well. She was gleaned right before his eyes by Scythe Constantine. Greyson supposed seeking out others like her was his way of mourning for her—but no one he found was anywhere near nasty enough.

“Historically, religious figures tend to be either oversexed or celibate,” said Sister Astrid, a devout Tonist of the non-fanatical variety, who managed his daily schedule. “If you can find your happy place in between, that’s the best any holy man could ask for.” Astrid was perhaps the only one among those who attended him who he considered a friend. Or at least could talk to like one. She was older—in her thirties—not old enough to be his mother, but perhaps an older sister or cousin, and she was never afraid to speak her mind.

“I believe in the Tone,” she once told him, “but I don’t buy that what-comes-can’t-be-avoided garbage. Anything can be avoided if you try hard enough.” She had first come to him for an audience on what had to be the coldest day of the year—which was even colder under the arch. She was so miserable, she forgot what she was there to ask and spent the whole time cursing the weather, and the Thunderhead for not doing more about it. Then she had pointed at the embroidered scapular that the Toll wore over his tunic.

“Have you ever run that wave pattern through a sequencer to see what it spits out?” she asked.

Turned out his scapular was seven seconds of a mortal-age piece of music called “Bridge over Troubled Water,” which made perfect sense, considering where the Toll had his audiences. He immediately invited Astrid to be part of his inner circle—a reality check against all the crap he had to face on a daily basis.

There were many days Greyson wished he was still laying low, unseen and unknown in his dark little room of the Wichita monastery, a nonentity who had even had his name taken from him. But there was no turning back from this path now.

The Thunderhead could read all of Greyson’s physiology. It knew when his heart rate was elevated; it knew when he was feeling stress or anxiety or joy; and when he slept, it knew when he was dreaming. It could not access his dreams, though. Even though everyone’s waking memories were uploaded to the backbrain on a minute by minute basis, dreams were not included.

It was discovered early on that when someone needed their brain restored—either a splatter or someone who had suffered brain injury in some other way—dreams became a problem. For when their memories were returned to them, they had trouble differentiating what was real from what was the product of dreams. So now when one’s mind was handed back to them in revival centers, they had every memory, except for the memories of dreams. No one complained, for how could you miss something that you no longer remembered you had?

And so the Thunderhead had no idea what adventures and dramas Greyson experienced in his sleep, unless he chose to confide them once he awoke. But Greyson was not one to talk much about his dreams, and it would have been too forward of the Thunderhead to ask.

It did enjoy watching Greyson sleep, though, and imagining what strange things he might be experiencing in that deep place that lacked logic and coherence, where humans struggled to find glorious shapes in internal clouds. Even while the Thunderhead was taking care of a million different tasks around the world, it still isolated enough of its consciousness to watch Greyson sleep. To feel the vibrations of his stirring, to hear his gentle breathing and sense how each breath ever so slightly increased the humidity in the room. It gave the Thunderhead peace. It gave it comfort.

It was glad Greyson never ordered the Thunderhead to turn off its cameras in his private suite. He had every right to request privacy—and if asked, the Thunderhead would have to oblige. Of course Greyson knew he was being watched. It was common knowledge that the Thunderhead was, at all times, conscious of everything its sensors were experiencing—including its cameras. But that it devoted such a large portion of its attention to the sensory devices in Greyson’s quarters was a fact it did not flaunt. For if the Thunderhead brought it to Greyson’s attention, he might tell it to stop.

Over the years, the Thunderhead had witnessed millions of people in each other’s arms, embracing as they slept. The Thunderhead had no arms to embrace. Even so, it could feel the beat of Greyson’s heart and the precise temperature of his body as if it were right beside him. To lose that would be a cause of immeasurable sorrow. And so night after night, the Thunderhead silently monitored Greyson in every way it could. Because monitoring was the closest it could come to embracing.