The Mysterious Benedict Society Read online

  Sticky had been shrinking in his chair. He had drawn his feet up beneath him, crossed his arms over his knees, and buried his face behind them. At Mr. Benedict’s words, he looked up with an expression of something like panic, then quickly hid his face again. His voice muffled, his words mumbled, Sticky said, “May I make the decision tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid not, my friend. There’s no time to waste. I hate to press you, but you must decide tonight.”

  “Do you think the team is good enough without me?” came the muffled voice.

  “Frankly, no. I think the team needs you to succeed.”

  “Then how can I say no?”

  Mr. Benedict spoke gently. “Sticky, it’s quite reasonable for you to be afraid. It’s a terrible thing for a child to be asked to join a dangerous mission. You have every reason to say no, and I will not blame you in the least.”

  “Come on, Sticky,” said Kate, “it’ll be fun!”

  Sticky peeked out from behind his knees, first at Kate, who gave him a smile and a wink, then at Reynie, who said, “I’m with Mr. Benedict. I don’t blame you if you don’t join us. But I’d feel a whole lot better if you did.”

  “You would?”

  Reynie nodded.

  Sticky hid his face again. For a long time the room was silent, full of expectation. Although Constance yawned and scratched at an insect bite on her ankle, no one else moved or spoke a word. There was only the hushed sound of their breathing, and, from somewhere in the room, the ticking of a clock, which must have been hidden by books.

  Finally Sticky looked up. “I’ll do it. Now may I please use the bathroom?”

  Much as the children longed for more answers, it had grown late, their eyes were heavy, and Mr. Benedict deemed they should rest tonight and leave further explanations for morning. In short order they were given toothbrushes, pajamas, and warm slippers — it was drafty in the old house at night — and shown to their rooms. The bedroom Reynie shared with Sticky was small but comfortable, with a worn rug on the wooden floor, bunk beds against the wall, and, of course, more bookshelves. When Reynie returned from brushing his teeth, he found Sticky already asleep on the lower bunk, the lamp still lit, spectacles still on his nose, and slippers still on his feet. On his chest, rising and falling with the deep, regular breaths of a solid sleeper, lay a thick book about tropical plant life that he’d taken from a shelf. It was open to the very middle. In only a few minutes, Sticky had read half the book.

  Reynie marveled at this. He was a fast reader himself — faster than most adults — but compared to Sticky he must seem positively sluggish. Such an incredible gift, and yet here the boy lay, a runaway sleeping in a stranger’s house. What had he run from? Standing there in the lamplit room, reflecting upon Sticky’s life as he slept, Reynie experienced a curious mixture of admiration, affection, and sympathy — curious because although he’d known the boy for only a day, it seemed as if they’d been friends for ages. And Kate, too, he reflected. He was already quite fond of her. And Constance . . . well, with Constance he would have to wait and see.

  Anyway, Reynie thought, if nothing else comes of this, at least you’re making friends. That’s more than you had yesterday. He eased Sticky’s slippers from his feet and his glasses from his nose, setting them, along with the plant book, upon a bedside stand. Then he drew a cover over his friend, turned off the lamp, and crept from the room.

  Down the dark, quiet hall — the girls must have been asleep, too — and down a flight of creaky stairs, Reynie made his way back to Mr. Benedict’s study. He knocked softly on the door, and from within a voice called, “Please come in, Reynie.”

  Reynie entered to find Mr. Benedict alone in the room, seated on the floor with his back against the desk, surrounded by books, papers, and a variety of colored pens. He gestured toward a chair and said, “Have a seat, will you, while I clear some of this away?” He began sorting things into piles. “Awkward business, working on the floor, but that is my compromise with Rhonda and Number Two. They’ve grown overprotective, I’m afraid, and can hardly stand to leave me alone for a minute. Thus I promise them to remain seated as much as possible — and on the floor, when possible — and in turn they allow me some occasional privacy.”

  Mr. Benedict finished tidying his things and sat in a chair across from Reynie. “I’ve been expecting you. I imagine you wish to call Miss Perumal and apprise her of your situation.”

  Reynie nodded.

  “You’re very good to think of it. Number Two told me how you resisted her attempts to befuddle you on the same matter earlier today. I assume you realize her deceptions were another aspect of the testing?”

  Again Reynie nodded. He hadn’t known it at the time, but looking back on the encounter later he had suspected as much.

  “You behaved admirably,” Mr. Benedict said. “Polite but steadfast, and with appropriate consideration. Now, I’m afraid you can’t make your telephone call this time, either, but it has nothing to do with being tested. As it happens, Miss Perumal phoned while you were being shown to your room. Her mother, it seems, has had an unfortunate reaction to her new medicine, and Miss Perumal found it necessary to take her to the hospital. She begs you not to worry, it’s only a mild reaction and the doctors assure her that her mother will be spry as a robin come morning. But she wanted you to know how proud she is of you — proud but not surprised, she said — and sends you her best regards.

  “And now,” he continued, removing his spectacles and looking frankly at Reynie with his bright green eyes (they were made greener still by his green plaid suit), “I will anticipate your other questions. First, I’ve made all the necessary arrangements with Mr. Rutger at the orphanage: We have considerable skills and resources here and can do many things you might not expect. And second, on a more solemn note: No, you won’t be able to contact Miss Perumal again. I’m afraid the urgency of our mission, and its necessary secrecy, forbids it. It is for Miss Perumal’s protection as well as your own. But if all goes well — which is, of course, our most desperate hope — you will see her again. Indeed, if our mission is to succeed, it must do so very quickly, and so with luck your reunion will be sooner rather than later.”

  Reynie nodded again, though not quite as bravely as before, and glanced away to hide the tears in his eyes. He had thought this might be the case, but it still saddened him to think he might not ever again share a cup of tea with Miss Perumal or attempt to tell her, in his limited Tamil, about his adventures. He was sad at the thought of what lay ahead, yes, and more than a little afraid.

  “I am sorry, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict with a quaver in his voice.

  Reynie didn’t look at him just yet. He kept his eyes averted until he had composed himself, which he did with a few deep breaths and a quick swipe at his tearful eyes. When he felt sufficiently recovered, he turned back to Mr. Benedict — who was sound asleep in his chair.

  Before Reynie could rise and tiptoe from the room, however, Mr. Benedict’s eyes popped open, and he laid a hand on Reynie’s arm to stop him. “Forgive me,” he said, clearing his throat and running his fingers through his unkempt hair. “Please stay just a moment longer. I wanted to ask you something. I wasn’t asleep long, was I? I trust I haven’t kept you up?”

  “No, sir, only a minute or two.”

  “Ah, good. Usually it is only a minute or two, but occasionally it’s longer. Now then, for my question.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It regards the chess problem from the first test. You, Reynie, happen to be the only child ever to answer the question correctly, and I should like to hear your explanation for it. The board clearly shows that only the black pawn is out of its starting position, while all the other pieces and pawns rest on their original squares. Yet according to the rules of chess, the white player always moves first. Why, then, did you say the position was possible?”

  “Because the white knight may have changed its mind.”

  “The white knight?”

  �
�Oh, yes sir. The pawns can only move forward, never backward, so none of the white pawns could have moved yet. And the bigger pieces are trapped behind the pawns — because only knights can jump over things — so they couldn’t have moved yet, either. But a white knight might have opened the game by jumping out in front. Then, after the black pawn was moved, the knight returned to its original square. So it looks like the white player never moved at all.”

  “Bravo, Reynie. You’re quite correct. Now tell me, would you consider this a good move?”

  “I’m no great chess player, but I would say not. By starting over, white loses the advantage of going first.”

  “Why, then, do you think the white player might have done it?”

  Reynie considered. He imagined himself moving out his knight only to bring it right back to where it had started. Why would he ever do such a thing? At last he said, “Perhaps because he doubted himself.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Benedict. “Perhaps he did. Thank you, Reynie, you’ve been very kind and very patient, and I’m sure you’re ready for a night’s sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast, bright and early.”

  Reynie rose and went to the door, but there he hesitated. He looked back. Mr. Benedict had replaced his spectacles and lowered himself onto the floor again, was again leaning against the desk, and had taken up a book. His eyebrows rose expectantly when he noticed the boy lingering.

  “Yes, Reynie?”

  “Mr. Benedict, sir, have you read all the books in this house?”

  Mr. Benedict smiled, glancing fondly about at the many books in his study before looking at Reynie again. “My dear boy,” he said, “what do you think?”

  Bright and early, Mr. Benedict had said, and indeed it was early, but it was far from bright. As the children rose and went down to the dining room (not knowing where else to meet), rain was slashing against the windows, wind groaned in the chimneys, and odd drafts sent papers flying from desktops and skittering across floors. The blackened sky outside seemed to creep gloomily into the house, dimming the lamps and lengthening their shadows; and along with the howling chimneys was heard the growling of thunder, low and menacing and close at hand, as if a tiger prowled the dark rooms beyond their walls. From time to time the lamps flickered with the thunder, and once — just as the children were taking seats at the table — they went out entirely. The room was dark only for a few moments, yet when the lamps came back to life, Milligan stood before the children with a pitcher of juice, having appeared out of nowhere.

  Constance shrieked. The other children jumped.

  Milligan sighed.

  Filling their juice glasses, he said, “Rhonda’s coming with toast and eggs. Number Two’s stopping a leak in her bedroom wall, but she’ll fetch Mr. Benedict when she’s done.”

  “Milligan, may I have some milk, please?” Kate asked cheerily. She’d been awake longer than anyone, had already bathed and dressed in the fresh clothes Rhonda had given her, and — apparently unaffected by the storm — was in a much better mood than the others.

  Without doubt she was in a better mood than Milligan, who nodded glumly and said, “Anything else?”

  “You wouldn’t have any tea, would you, Milligan?” asked Reynie. “And perhaps a little honey?”

  “And candy?” asked Constance.

  “No candy for breakfast,” Milligan said, leaving the room.

  Rhonda appeared with a tray of wheat toast, eggs, and fruit. “Good morning, everyone,” she said. “Quite a bit of weather we’re having, isn’t it? On a day like this, you have to set something on every stray sheet of paper if you don’t want a draft carrying it off. A map of Stonetown Harbor passed me in the hall just now, and on the stairs I found a grocery list I misplaced two weeks ago!”

  “Leaks in the walls and drafts in every room,” Constance grumbled. “You should have these things fixed.”

  “Leaks and drafts aren’t priorities, I’m afraid,” Rhonda said. “Our project — which is now your project, too — has required every spare moment, and all our resources have gone toward the research, the investigation, and the tests. Constance, will you pass the juice pitcher, please?”

  “No,” the girl replied, crossing her arms.

  “Perhaps you’ll be less cranky after you’ve eaten,” Rhonda said, getting the pitcher herself. At this, Constance’s pudgy, rosy cheeks grew redder still, so that her wispy blond hair seemed almost white in contrast, and her pale blue eyes shone bright as stars. Rhonda noticed this and said, “Constance, I had no idea how lovely your eyes were until just now. They’re spectacular!”

  This compliment, somehow upsetting to Constance, kept her quiet for some time.

  Milligan returned with the milk, a pot of tea, and a jar of honey. Mumbling something to Rhonda about being on duty, he left without another word.

  “What does he mean by that?” Sticky said. “‘On duty’?”

  “Milligan is our — well, for lack of a better word — our bodyguard. He has other tasks, but his first duty is to make sure we’re safe. Of course, until now, we haven’t been in direct danger, but now that you’re here . . . I’m sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you. The important thing is that he’s here to protect you.”

  “Protect us from what?” Reynie asked.

  “I’ll let Mr. Benedict explain all that to you when he comes down. The main rule is this: You must never leave the house without Milligan’s company. Inside the house, you’re quite safe; we have defenses here. The maze, for example, wasn’t just a test — it’s the only entrance. And this reminds me: All the arrows in the maze point to the stairway, which isn’t helpful if you’re trying to leave the house. That’s another reason you should never go without Milligan. We have a special way of opening the front door — you’ll remember it has no inside knob — and Milligan knows the maze like the back of his hand.”

  “I’ve always thought that was a funny expression,” Kate said. “Because how well do people really know the backs of their hands? Honestly, can anyone here tell me exactly what the back of your hand looks like?”

  They were all contemplating the backs of their hands when Mr. Benedict came in, followed very closely and attentively by Number Two, who no longer wore her yellow suit but had changed into a comfortable pair of yellow coveralls, so that she still looked every bit the pencil. She stuck close to Mr. Benedict until he had greeted everyone and taken his chair, after which she swooped upon the platter of toast and eggs, accidentally jostling Rhonda in the process.

  “Pardon me,” she said, embarrassed.

  “Not at all,” said Rhonda. To the children she said, “Number Two is always hungry because she never sleeps. A person needs a great deal of energy to stay awake all the time, and thus a great deal of food.”

  “It also makes me somewhat nervous and irritable, I’m afraid,” said Number Two. She proceeded to eat the crusts off her toast by turning it round and round and taking tiny, rapid bites.

  “You never sleep?” Kate asked, after watching this curious procedure a moment.

  Number Two swallowed. “Oh, yes, I do, but only a little.”

  “Don’t we make a fine pair?” said Mr. Benedict, pouring himself a cup of tea. “I can’t stay awake, and Number Two can’t go to sleep.” He started to laugh, then cut himself short, apparently not wanting to risk it. “By the way, Rhonda, have you seen my map of the harbor? It appears to have escaped the study.”

  “It drifted by me in the hallway,” Rhonda said. “I placed it by the bell under the Swiss book on electron-positron accelerators.”

  “Thank you. Now, children, speaking of the bell, do you all remember where it is — on the second-floor landing? If you ever hear that bell ringing, I want you to gather on the landing immediately. It will only be rung in case of emergency, so don’t delay. Drop what you’re doing and go there at once. Understood?”

  The children nodded uneasily. All this talk of danger and emergencies, without explanation, was beginning to wear on them.

  “I’m so
rry to put you ill at ease,” Mr. Benedict said. “And I haven’t much to say to comfort you. I can finally offer some answers to your questions, however. Who wishes to begin? Yes, Constance?”

  To the great exasperation of the others, Constance demanded to know why they couldn’t have candy for breakfast.

  Mr. Benedict smiled. “A fine question. The short answer is that there is no candy presently in the house. Beyond that, the explanation involves a consideration of candy’s excellent flavor but low nutritional value — that is to say, why it makes a wonderful treat but a poor meal — though I suspect you aren’t interested in explanations but simply wished to express your frustration. Is that correct?”

  “Maybe,” Constance said with a shrug. But she seemed satisfied.

  “Other questions?” said Mr. Benedict.

  There were, of course, other questions, and all speaking at once, the children asked him to explain his “project” and why he needed children and what sort of danger they were in.

  Mr. Benedict set down his teacup. “Very well. I shall explain everything, and you may listen as you eat your breakfast.” (When he began, however, Constance was the only child who continued to eat. The others were unable to concentrate on anything besides his explanation.)

  “Several years ago,” Mr. Benedict said, “in the course of my research on the human brain, it came to my attention that messages were being delivered to people all across the world — delivered, I should say, quite without their knowledge. It is as if I secretly hid a letter in your pocket, and later you found and read it, not knowing where it came from. In this case, however, the messages were going directly into people’s minds, which absorbed them not only without knowing where the messages came from, but without realizing they had received or read anything at all.

  “The messages appear to be in a kind of code,” Mr. Benedict continued. “They come across like poetic gibberish. But from early on I’ve had reason to believe they’re having a powerful effect — a most unfortunate effect — on those who receive them, which is to say almost everyone. In fact, I believe these messages are the source of the phenomenon commonly known as the Emergency — though, I admit, I don’t know to what end. And so I have devoted myself to discovering their ultimate purpose and who it is that sends them. Unfortunately, I’ve not entirely succeeded.”