The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
Inwardly, Reynie groaned.
“She doesn’t seem dedicated,” Mr. Curtain went on. “Her insolent behavior contradicts her quiz scores. I don’t understand her motivations, and when I don’t understand something, Reynard, it is natural that I don’t trust it.”
“Perfectly natural, sir,” Reynie agreed. “But you know what they say about people you don’t trust.”
“No,” said Mr. Curtain, lifting one eyebrow. “What do they say?”
“If you don’t trust them, keep them close.”
Mr. Curtain burst out with a screechy laugh that made Reynie jump. “Keep them close. Very good. There is even more to you than I’d thought, Reynard Muldoon. Very well, I’ll keep her close, as you do, and perhaps one day she will prove useful.”
“Perhaps so,” Reynie said. He had the distinct feeling that something between them had changed — as if he had passed a test. A test I didn’t know I was taking, he thought with a curious sense of déjà vu.
“Yes, keep them close,” said Mr. Curtain, stroking his chin. He seemed to be considering something. “Yes, that is the best way to control the problem. And control is the key, my boy. Never forget that. Control is always the key.”
“No, sir,” said Reynie. “I won’t forget.”
Mr. Curtain smiled. “Very well, Reynard, I have decided something. I should like to speak with you further. Come with me to my office, won’t you? Step along quickly now. I hate to waste time getting from one place to the next.” And spinning his chair about, Mr. Curtain rocketed from the room.
Reynie hesitated only long enough to take a deep, deep breath, then hurried after him.
Mr. Curtain did hate to waste time. Reynie had to run to keep up with him. Through the empty corridors and across the cafeteria, where the Helpers were busy preparing supper, Mr. Curtain never slowed — not even when he approached the door onto the plaza. Slamming it open with the front of his chair (and scattering frightened students left and right), he zoomed across the plaza and the rock garden, his wheels spitting up bits of gravel that stung Reynie’s arms. Racing along behind, Reynie saw his friends across the plaza, staring after him in wonder and not a little apprehension. He waved to reassure them, though at this moment he could have used some reassurance himself.
As Mr. Curtain banged through the door to the Institute Control Building, it occurred to Reynie that every door in the Institute must have been designed to be opened in this violent manner. Mr. Curtain clearly would not bear having to wait for a door to open. Nor to wait for any lagging students, and so Reynie hurried on. They passed down a number of door-lined corridors, which must be the Recruiter quarters and Executive suites. At last they came to a plain metal door, whereupon Mr. Curtain stopped so abruptly that Reynie — who had expected him to smash it open without slowing — almost ran up against the back of his wheelchair. Now he saw the numeric keypad beside the door. Mr. Curtain kept his office locked. Directing Reynie to look away, Mr. Curtain punched in the number code, the door slid swiftly open, and Mr. Curtain shot into the office. Reynie had to leap forward before the door closed again.
Mr. Curtain’s office was an oblong, white-stoned room with no windows. It seemed bony and cold, like an empty skull. The bare stone floor had not even a rug, and there was a drain in it, perhaps for the sake of cleaning. High on the wall behind Mr. Curtain’s desk, in a heavy silver frame, hung an old map of Holland (Mr. Curtain’s place of birth, Reynie remembered) along with several sketches of Stonetown Harbor and Nomansan Island. Beneath the sketches stood a row of locked cabinets — bookshelves, Reynie realized, but locked so no one could get at the books. Mr. Curtain’s desk, a dull-polished, Spartan metal affair, was carefully organized with file boxes and short stacks of paper. On one corner of the desk sat an artificial violet in a pot. The flower looked perfectly real, was in excellent condition, and unlike Mr. Benedict’s live violet, required no care. How strangely similar the two men were, Reynie thought, and yet how utterly different.
Mr. Curtain motioned for Reynie to sit across the desk from him, then set his large black book upon the desk. It was clearly an old book, with a binding that had been mended more than once and with several pages dog-eared throughout. The book fell open to a place Mr. Curtain had marked with a paper clip, and Reynie saw that the pages were covered with handwriting. It was a journal!
Mr. Curtain was drumming his fingers on the desk and regarding Reynie in silence. It suddenly occurred to Reynie that perhaps he was expected to speak. “Did — did you want to show me something in that book?”
Mr. Curtain frowned. “This book? Certainly not.” He reached forward and snapped the journal closed. “I was only collecting my thoughts, Reynard. Tell me, what do you think of my map? I saw you looking at it as we entered.”
“Your map of Holland, sir? It’s quite lovely.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Mr. Curtain said, his tone shifting to fondness. “I was born in Holland, you see — an orphan like yourself. I spent my childhood there, too, and a terrible childhood it was. Taunted and bullied, ridiculed and abused by other children. I don’t miss my childhood, but I do, on occasion, miss Holland, a country with an admirable tradition.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why did the other children torment you?”
“I do mind your asking,” Mr. Curtain said coldly, but then he collected himself and said in a friendlier tone, “We both know you’ve had similar experiences, do we not, Reynard? For being different?”
Reynie hesitated, then nodded.
“People are capable of great wickedness, Reynard. They cause each other such misery. This is why I’m particularly proud of my work. Despite having been persecuted myself, my chief goal in life is to bring happiness to all.” He smiled a tight smile, a smile that gave Reynie the feeling Mr. Curtain half-believed what he said, but also that something else, something much larger and darker, lay beneath.
“Now, Reynard, to the point,” said Mr. Curtain. “I don’t believe there’s ever been such a clever student at my Institute as you. You have a shrewd, strong mind. I saw this at once. And you are a natural leader.”
“I don’t know about that, sir. I —”
“Don’t argue with me, Reynard,” said Mr. Curtain. “I dislike contradiction.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Mr. Curtain’s tone softened. “A natural leader, I say. Oh, you may not see it yourself, but I daresay I can see a bit more than you. The way your friends gather about you, the way your enemies wish to destroy you — don’t think I haven’t noticed these things. It is familiar to me, you see. You remind me of myself at your age.”
“I’m . . . flattered, sir. I’m sure you were a brilliant student.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Curtain with a smile. “And I had my share of enemies, too. Children despise superior minds, you know, especially in leaders, who must often make unpopular decisions.”
Reynie thought suddenly of Kate and Sticky, who had been so shocked at his suggestion to cheat on the quizzes. But they didn’t despise him, he knew that. . . .
“One problem with being a leader,” Mr. Curtain was saying, “is that even among your friends you are alone, for it is you — and you alone — to whom the others look for final guidance.” (Reynie felt a pang. That was true, he thought. He did feel that way sometimes.) “I’m not saying this is your experience now,” Mr. Curtain went on, “for you are only a boy. But in your future you may wish to choose carefully with whom you associate. No point in being a regular sort of person, Reynard. You have a greater calling, a duty to yourself, and you must pursue it with all your heart and mind.”
“And . . . how should I do that?” Reynie asked.
“This is what I’m arriving at,” said Mr. Curtain. “When you are a little older and more experienced, I have you in mind as an Executive.”
“An Executive!”
“I see you are amazed. You should not be. No, the question is not whether you have the ability to be an Executive — you have that in
“Well, from what I’ve seen —,” Reynie began.
Mr. Curtain screeched — that is, laughed — and cut Reynie short. “Ah, yes, what you’ve seen. There is more to being an Executive than what you’ve seen, Reynard. There soon will be, at any rate. See here, I am about to tell you something only my Executives and a handful of Messengers know. You’re to hold this information in utmost secrecy. If it comes back to me, I will know it was you who told it, do you understand?”
Reynie could not imagine what he was about to be told. His heart and stomach seemed to be switching places inside him, then changing their minds and switching again. “I understand, sir.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Curtain. “Here is the secret: Things are going to change, Reynard. They are going to improve. I will not say precisely how. That will come later, after you have proven yourself. Suffice it to say that the Institute as you know it is destined to change. Grand things lie in store. The Improvement is quite near, and after it has occurred there will be no such thing as Messengers anymore. Much to the heartbreak of my students, I know, but it is for the better.”
Reynie almost started in his seat. No more Messengers? Why not?
“Even so,” Mr. Curtain was saying, “I shall still need Executives, and I intend to keep on a few of the best Messengers to groom for higher service when they come of age. Obviously I am thinking of you . . . and perhaps your friend George Washington, too, though about him I am less certain. He possesses enormous talent, but I fear the fidgeting belies an underlying weakness. However, I am loath to dismiss him out of hand. I have an open mind, you see. In fact,” he added with one of his short, screeching laughs, “open minds are what I prize most!”
Mr. Curtain pressed a button on his chair, and the office door slid open. Reynie was being dismissed.
“Thank you, sir,” Reynie said, stepping out into the corridor, where Jackson stood waiting for him.
“Don’t thank me,” Mr. Curtain called as the door slid closed. “Impress me!”
When at last the lights were out, the girls had descended from the ceiling, and Reynie had told his friends everything that had happened, the first thing Constance could think to say was, “You don’t trust me?”
“Come on, Constance,” Sticky said. “That’s just what he wanted Mr. Curtain to think. It’s better than having him suspicious of Reynie, too, you know.”
Kate pretzeled up her legs and thrust her chin into her hands. “The Improvement,” she said. “So that’s what Mr. Curtain calls the thing to come. And he said he won’t need Messengers anymore?”
“That’s what he said,” said Reynie. “But I knew better than to ask why. I still need to prove myself to him.”
“Well, we’d better pass all this on to Mr. Benedict,” Sticky said, climbing up onto the television. As soon as the coast was clear, he sent their report, outlining all they’d learned: Mr. Curtain called the thing to come the Improvement, it was coming very soon, and Messengers wouldn’t be needed. A few minutes later a response began flashing among the mainland trees.
“Here it comes,” Sticky said.
Do not worry, the message said.
And then, after a short pause: But do hurry.
Everything As It Should Be
Before supper the next day, the Mysterious Benedict Society, hopeful for clues, climbed the hill beyond the gym to take a look around. It was quite a high hill, but if you moved at a quick pace — and Kate always moved at a quick pace, even with Constance riding piggyback — you could follow the winding path to the summit in a matter of minutes. This Kate did, with Reynie and Sticky panting along behind her at some distance. By the time the boys reached the top, she was already surveying the area with her spyglass.
Reynie mopped his brow. “See anything?”
Kate shrugged. “Grass and rocks, bushes and rocks, vines and rocks, sand and rocks. Lots of rocks,” she said, lowering the spyglass. Then, ever so casually, she added, “I also found another trap.”
“A trap?” Sticky said, glancing all around, as if the trap might sneak up and grab him.
“Don’t worry, it’s way down there, in a little grassy area behind the Institute Control Building. You can’t see it from anywhere else, but if you aim the spyglass over the roof of the classroom building, you can just see it.” She offered the spyglass to Sticky, who declined. He didn’t care to see any more traps. Reynie took a look, though, and sure enough, from this spot you could just make out the telltale drapeweed and boulders behind the building.
Reynie returned the spyglass to her. “I wonder why both traps are right next to a group of boulders.”
“Don’t you think it’s to make them harder to see?” Kate said. “By moonlight or sunlight, the drapeweed would almost always be in shadow.”
“Crafty,” said Constance.
“Drapeweed was a perfect choice, then,” said Sticky. “It’s a shade-loving plant.”
“Put away the spyglass,” Reynie murmured. “We have company.”
Two Helpers had appeared on the path below them, each lugging two buckets full of gardening tools. They were making their slow way up the hill, clearing weeds and debris from the paths. As they drew near, they moved wordlessly to the edge of the path, so as not to disturb the children.
“Good afternoon,” Reynie said, forgetting that he usually avoided greeting Helpers. He was nervous about the spyglass and had wanted to seem casual.
The Helpers, a man and a woman, glanced at Reynie with fearful suspicion. To ease their worries he smiled good-naturedly and gave a little wave — then immediately regretted it. The Helpers, feeling compelled to reciprocate, stopped walking and set down their buckets so they could wave back.
“Nice buckets,” Kate said.
“Thank you, miss. They do the job,” said one of the Helpers, a short rotund man who looked rather like a bullfrog and sounded even more like one.
At the sound of his voice, Reynie started. He knew this man! He took a step closer and peered at the man’s face. The Helper took a step backward and averted his eyes.
“Mr. Bloomburg?” Reynie said. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Greatly discomfited, the Helper turned to his partner, a wisp of a woman who seemed to be trying to hide behind her hair. “Is he speaking to you?”
“Have you gone mad?” the woman hissed, first rolling her eyes at her partner, then flashing a miserable, conciliatory smile at the children. She made an effort to speak calmly: “He said Mister. Didn’t you, young man? Anyway, my name’s not Bloomburg.”
“Well, neither is mine,” said the man, and, looking at the ground near Reynie’s feet, he said, “Please don’t take offense, but my name is Harry Harrison.”
“You aren’t Mr. Bloomburg?”
“I don’t mean to be contrary,” said Harry Harrison (the other Helper signaled her vigorous agreement), “and I hope you won’t be displeased. But no.”
The other children were staring at Reynie, who seemed dreadfully confused. “But . . . but . . . how long have you worked here?”
The Helper glanced at his partner. “A long time, wouldn’t you say, Mary?”
“I know I’ve been here a long time,” the woman said, looking at the ground, “and you’ve been here for most of that, so yes.”
“I hope that’s okay,” said Harry.
“But how long, exactly?” Reynie pressed.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he did indeed seem very sorry. “I don’t believe I remember the exact date. Do you, Mary?”
“The exact date, no. But certainly a long time.”
Reynie put his hands on his head. “You’ve never visited Stonetown Orphanage?”
“You seem agitated,” said Mary in a worried tone. “I’m sorry if we’ve upset you. Aren’t we sorry,
“Very sorry indeed,” said Harry, miserably. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You haven’t upset me,” said Reynie, sounding very upset. “But are you not troubled that you can’t remember exactly when you came here?”
At this, both Helpers shook their heads and said, “Everything is just as it should be.”
The children’s eyes widened, but the Helpers seemed unaware of the oddity of their response. They were only waiting to be dismissed, hoping the children would not abuse them or get them into trouble.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Reynie said at last. He seemed finally to be recovering. He even managed to chuckle and say, “I’m sorry, I’m really a dunce. You just look so much like him . . . this person I used to know. Obviously I’ve made a mistake. Nice talking to you, though.”
The Helpers were relieved. “Oh, indeed . . . very nice . . . a great pleasure . . . ,” they said, taking up their buckets and hurrying down the other side of the hill.
“Okay, what was that all about?” asked Kate when they were out of earshot.
Reynie’s brows were knitted with concentration. “That was Mr. Bloomburg, no doubt about it. His face, his shape, that froggy voice — there’s no question it was him. And yet he pretended not to know me — pretended not to be himself. Now why would he do that?”
“Maybe he’s a secret agent,” Constance said. “You know, like Milligan was. And you were blowing his cover.”
“Mr. Bloomburg?” Reynie said. “I doubt it.”
“He did kind of remind me of Milligan, though,” Sticky said. “Did anyone else notice how sad he seemed? How sad they both seemed? In their eyes, I mean. I’d never gotten a good look at a Helper’s eyes before — they’re always looking away. But with these two I could plainly see it.”
“That’s true,” Kate reflected. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so sad as Milligan, but these two came awfully close. Reynie, do you think — Reynie, what’s wrong?”