The trick with the birds had been Greyson’s idea. It was easy enough. All Earth’s creatures had nanites so that the Thunderhead could monitor their populations – which meant that the Thunderhead had a back door into each species’s behavior.
The scythedom had done something similar with the sea life around Endura, turning them into a free-range aquarium. But unlike that ill-fated technology, the Thunderhead did not manipulate the animals for human pleasure – or, as it turned out in the end – human pain. It only controlled a creature if that creature was in danger of becoming roadkill, or engaging in any other behavior that would end its life. As there were no revival centers for wild animals, it was the most effective way to allow them to live the full length of their natural lives.
“If I’m supposed to stop Sibilants,” Greyson had said to the Thunderhead, “then I need to show them something impressive. Something that will prove to them that you are on my side, and not theirs.” He proposed the gathering of storm-cloud colored birds, lighting all over him, and the Thunderhead obliged.
There were other tricks that Greyson used, of course. The Thunderhead could cause publicars to encircle the Tonists, herding them like sheep. It could generate a magnetic field strong enough to levitate Greyson with no visible means of doing so, and when weather conditions were right, the Thunderhead could induce a lightning storm at Greyson’s command. But the birds were the best. It never failed to dazzle and always brought Sibilants around. If not back into line, then at least it started them moving in the right direction. Of course, being covered in doves and pigeons was not a pleasant thing. Their talons left scratches and gouges in his skin. They often tried to peck at his ears and eyes. And they were not the most hygienic of animals.
He would stay with the sect in question just long enough to make sure they were changing their ways. “Coming back into the fold,” Mendoza called it. Then the Toll would disappear with his entourage and move on to another sect of Sibilants in another part of the world. Surgical strikes and guerilla diplomacy, that was his strategy for two years, and it was working. It helped that there were more ridiculous rumors about him than legitimate ones. “The Toll made a mountain crumble with his voice.” “The Toll was seen dining in the desert with mortal-age gods, and was at the head of the table.” It was easy to hide his actual appearances in the folds of the absurd ones.
“It’s good that we do this,” Curate Mendoza would say, “but it’s nothing compared to what we could be doing.”
“It’s what the Thunderhead wants,” Greyson would tell him, but Mendoza was always dubious. And, truth be told, Greyson was just as frustrated.
“You have me on a treadmill,” Greyson had told the Thunderhead. “What am I accomplishing if sibilant sects are popping up faster than I can turn them? Is this your big plan? And isn’t it wrong for me to pretend to be a god?”
“Define ‘wrong,’” the Thunderhead had said.
The Thunderhead was particularly annoying when Greyson put forth ethical questions. It could not lie – but Greyson could, and did. He lied to the Sibilants at every encounter, telling them he was beyond human. Even so, the Thunderhead would not stop him from doing it, so he had no idea if it approved or disapproved. A simple “don’t do that” would have sufficed if the Thunderhead felt his actions were an abuse of his power. In fact, being chastised by the Thunderhead would be comforting, because then he’d know if his own moral compass was off the mark. On the other hand, if the end did justify Greyson’s means, why couldn’t the Thunderhead just tell him so, and ease his mind?
“If you do anything that is too damaging, I will inform you,” the Thunderhead had told him. Which left Greyson constantly waiting for a slap that never came.
“I’ve done some terrible things in your name,” he told the Thunderhead.
To which the Thunderhead replied, “Define ‘terrible.’”
The Toll’s entourage, which had contracted to his inner circle – Scythe Morrison, Sister Astrid, and Curate Mendoza – had become an effective team.
Morrison had proven himself valuable right from the beginning. He never really had much of a work ethic before showing up to glean the Toll, but these years had changed him considerably – or at least carved him a new rut that was a little more enlightened. He had his reasons for staying. After all, where would he go? The North Merican scythedom thought he was dead. But that was only part of it. The thing is, if the North Merican scythedom were to check their own statistics, they’d know that he’d gleaned and granted immunity more than once. Well, he told himself, with so much gleaning going on these days, they couldn’t be expected to notice the actions of one rogue scythe.
Of course, he knew that wasn’t the truth, but the truth hurt a little too much to admit.
They didn’t notice, because they didn’t care.
He had always been a nonentity to the other scythes. An embarrassment to his mentor, who chose him because he was strong and good-looking, and then disowned him the moment it became clear that he’d never win anyone’s respect. To them he was a joke. But at least here, in the service of the Toll, his existence was acknowledged. He had a place and a purpose. He was the protector, and he liked it.
Sister Astrid was the only one who had issues with Morrison. “You, Jim, embody everything about the world I can’t stand,” she once told him.
Which made him grin. “Why can’t you just admit that you like me?”
“I tolerate you. There’s a big difference.”
As for Astrid, she had her work cut out for her keeping them all on the proper spiritual path. She stayed with the Toll because deep down, she believed that Greyson Tolliver was the real thing. That he was divinely moved by the Tone, and that his humility about it was understandable. A humble nature was, after all, the hallmark of a true holy man. It made perfect sense that he would refuse to believe he was part of the Holy Triad, but just because he didn’t believe it himself, didn’t make it any less true.
She would secretly smirk each time he faced sibilant Tonists as the Toll, because she knew he didn’t believe a single thing he said. To him it was just a role. But to Astrid, his denial made it all the more true.
And then there was Curate Mendoza: the magician, the showman, the producer of their traveling show. He knew he was the linchpin holding it all together, and although there were times that he actually believed his own faith, that always got trampled by the practicality of getting the job done.
Mendoza not only organized the Toll’s appearances, but kept in close communication with his network of curates around the globe, in a constant attempt to wrangle more and more sects under one accepted doctrine, and to help them protect themselves against scythes. Mendoza also worked in the shadows, spreading many of the false rumors about the Toll. They were amazingly helpful in keeping the flock engaged – and in keeping scythes disengaged – because how could scythes give any credence to Toll sightings when most of them were flights of fancy? Yet when Greyson found out what Mendoza was doing, he was horrified. How could Greyson not see the value?
“You’re telling people that I’ve risen from my own ashes?”
“There is precedent,” Mendoza tried to explain. “The history of faith is full of falling/rising gods. I’m laying the groundwork for your legend.”