The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
This day had gone from good to bad to worse. And from there to worse than worse.
“Watch your toes, everyone,” Kate murmured.
S.Q. Pedalian was squeezing between two nearby tables, where students were wincing and crying out as he passed. Reynie tucked his feet safely out of reach. S.Q. came up and looked appraisingly at them. “Why the long faces, kids? Everything all right?”
The children tried to appear cheerful so he would leave them alone, but for once S.Q. judged correctly. “You can’t fool me. I know downtrodden faces when I see them. I’m surprised at you! Here Stick — I mean, here young George has got off clean and easy, you’re doing great on your quizzes, and yet the whole lot of you sits around like the cat got your pudding. Er, the pudding . . . no, got your tail. . . .”
No one felt like helping him, and after a moment S.Q. gave up. He adopted a shrewd expression, which, on S.Q., looked rather as if he had severe indigestion. “Now don’t tell me you’re fretting about not making the Messenger list yet! Is that it? Listen here,” he said confidentially, leaning in close to them, “I’ll tell you a secret, because you’re good eggs. You’re closer than you think!”
Reynie nodded glumly. “Is it because Martina’s not a Messenger anymore?”
S.Q. cocked his head. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Everybody knows,” said Kate.
This surprised both S.Q. and Reynie, who said together, “They do? How?”
Kate pointed across the cafeteria, where Martina had just come in, escorted by Jillson and Jackson. She wore her tunic and sash as always, but not the typical striped pants of a Messenger. No, her pants were solid blue, and as the other Messengers cheered and clapped, her face shone simultaneously with malevolence and triumph.
Martina had been made an Executive.
Half a Riddle
That evening, at precisely 10:01, S.Q. Pedalian knocked on the boys’ door. He knocked first with his feet, by accident, and then with his knuckles. Getting no response, he opened the door and peered in. In the dim room he saw the boys lying on their bunks in their pajamas. Something caught his eye, however, and he looked upward. Only shadows on the ceiling.
“S.Q.? Is that you?” Reynie asked in a sleepy voice.
“Sorry, boys,” S.Q. said, snapping on the light. “I didn’t think you’d be asleep so early — it’s only just now lights-out. Mr. Curtain wants to see you. Hop up now, both of you, and get dressed. You know, I could have sworn I saw one of your ceiling tiles move.”
“Probably just a shadow,” Reynie suggested, fumbling with his trousers and shoes.
“Or a mouse,” said Sticky in a cracked voice. His mouth had gone very dry.
S.Q. scratched his head. “A mouse, hm? That’s probably it. A lot of students have complained about mice in their ceiling lately. I suppose we’ll have to put out some traps.” As Reynie made a mental note to tell Kate to look out for mousetraps, S.Q. ushered them from their room.
Both boys were in a state of high alarm. Obviously Martina had convinced Mr. Curtain she hadn’t cheated, for how else would she have been made an Executive? Thus Mr. Curtain must know that Sticky lied, and no doubt Reynie had been implicated as his accomplice. Which was as it should be, Reynie thought miserably. It was his plan that got Sticky into this mess — twice.
At the entrance to the Institute Control Building, S.Q. stopped. With a sympathetic expression, he knelt down and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I imagine you two are wondering what Mr. Curtain wants to speak with you about.”
“Oh, yes!” cried the boys together, and Reynie’s heart leaped. If he had a moment to prepare, maybe he could think of something to say, something that . . .
“I wish I knew,” S.Q. said, shaking his head. “I hope it’s nothing bad.”
Sixty seconds later the boys were alone with Mr. Curtain in his office. Trying to breathe evenly (and mostly failing), they waited for him to speak. Mr. Curtain had put down his journal and rolled out from behind his desk. But instead of his usual zooming about, he was inching toward them, very, very slowly, contemplating the boys in a way that gave them the impression of a predator — a wolf spider came to mind — seeking just the moment to pounce upon its prey. They had to fight the urge to recoil.
“No doubt,” said Mr. Curtain as he drew near, “you are wondering why Martina Crowe was made Executive. After all, according to you, George, she was a bully and a cheat. Isn’t that right?”
Sticky reached for his spectacles, checked himself, and thrust his hands into his pockets to still them. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s true, Mr. Curtain,” said Reynie. “We were wondering that.”
“Yes. I know. And now I shall tell you why. Do you remember what you said to me the other day, Reynard, when we discussed Miss Contraire? You said the best way of dealing with those you don’t trust is to keep them close. I agreed with you then, and I agree with you now. Of course, had Martina Crowe not been such an excellent candidate for Executive, I would have sent her packing at once. But she has always been useful, and as I told George, the cheating itself doesn’t trouble me, so long as I understand the situation. At any rate, the situation has been rectified. Miss Crowe and I had a brief discussion of the matter (she denied the cheating, I might add), and ultimately she was promoted. Everything is settled.
“Everything, that is, except for your situation,” Mr. Curtain went on. “Which is why I have sent for you.”
“Our . . . situation?” said Reynie. He could hear Sticky trying to swallow.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Curtain. “For as of this moment, you are both made Messengers!”
The boys were stunned. Here they’d been afraid something terrible was in store for them — instead, their mission had leaped forward! Messengers at last! Their faces broke into huge grins.
“Oh, thank you!” Sticky cried, hoping he sounded more grateful than relieved.
“We won’t disappoint you,” said Reynie.
“I should hope not,” said Mr. Curtain. “I have two new Messenger slots to fill, and as a matter of urgency I am promoting you a day earlier than planned. Here are your new uniforms.”
Returning to his desk, Mr. Curtain produced two white tunics, two pale blue sashes, and two pairs of striped trousers. “Wear them with pride. And then . . . who knows? One day you may forego those striped pants for solid blue ones, just as Martina Crowe did today!”
When S.Q. had finally left off slapping the boys on the backs in painful congratulation and lumbered away down the corridor, Reynie and Sticky exchanged relieved glances and closed their bedroom door behind them. The door’s closing revealed the silhouette of Kate Wetherall pressed flat against the wall behind it. She switched on her flashlight and whispered in an exasperated tone, “You didn’t even knock!”
“It’s our own room!” Sticky replied.
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear us in the corridor,” Reynie said. “S.Q. was patting us on the backs so hard my teeth were clacking together.”
“To tell the truth,” Kate said sheepishly, “I was asleep until I heard the doorknob turn. I only had to time to leap across the room and hide.” She jerked her thumb toward the lower bunk, where Sticky’s covers and pillows were in lumpy disarray. “And first I had to throw the covers over Constance. You were gone so long, she fell asleep on Sticky’s bed. I meant to keep guard, but I guess I nodded off.”
“Some guard,” said a groggy voice from beneath the covers.
“Anyway,” Sticky said, “we’re glad you’re here. We have some news.”
He and Reynie held up their new uniforms.
“Messengers!” Kate exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! And here we were worried you’d gotten in big trouble!”
Constance sat up, rubbed her eyes, and squinted at the uniforms.
“Oh, yes,” Reynie said with a laugh. “So worried that you both fell asleep.”
Kate gave him a disapproving look. “We were worried,” she insisted. “And I’m
“You sent a report?” Sticky asked, surprised.
“Took us forever,” Constance said, stretching. “Morse code’s a little rusty.”
Rusty was not exactly the word for Constance’s Morse code, but the boys resisted comment. They were both glad to hear a report had been sent. They’d been unable to send one the night before — a night crew of Helpers had been working on the plaza, filling cracks and replacing broken stones.
Sticky climbed onto the television, made sure the coast was clear, and began flashing a message.
“Our ‘special privileges’ begin tomorrow,” Reynie told the girls. “That’s all he told us.”
“Nervous?” Kate asked.
“What do you think?” Reynie said. “I feel like I swallowed a beehive.”
“Here comes a response,” Sticky said from the window. “Glad . . . proud . . . now pay attention.”
“Sounds like he’s about to tell us something important,” Reynie said. He went over and peered out the window with Sticky. Sure enough, the light in the woods continued flashing its coded message:
With open eyes now you may find
A place you must exit to enter.
Where one —
“Where one what?” Sticky said, when the message broke off and didn’t resume. “Why did they stop?”
Reynie groaned. “It’s Mr. Curtain,” he said, pointing. “He’s going out onto the plaza.”
“Now?” Sticky hissed, watching the familiar figure rolling into view below. “In the middle of the message? He couldn’t have waited twenty more seconds?”
“At least we have a start,” Reynie said.
But a start was all they had, for even after a long discussion, the children were left stymied. The last, unfinished line gave no clue at all, and the first seemed pointless, as it hardly seemed necessary to tell them they needed to keep their eyes open. Which left only the middle line, and that one utterly baffled them. How on earth could you enter a place by exiting it?
“We’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Kate said finally, stifling a yawn. “I can’t think straight anymore tonight. At least you boys made Messenger. That’s an encouraging development.”
The others agreed, the meeting adjourned, and in a few minutes the girls had disappeared into the ceiling and the boys had gone to bed. Reynie had just begun to compose a mental letter to Miss Perumal when Sticky whispered into the darkness.
“Reynie, you awake?”
“Wide awake,” Reynie replied.
“I wanted to ask you . . . does this ‘encouraging development’ scare the wits out of you as much as it does me?”
Reynie laughed. “It may be the worst encouraging development I’ve ever experienced.”
In the bunk below, Sticky laughed, too. Their laughter relaxed them the tiniest bit — and that was all it took. In moments their exhaustion overcame them, and both boys fell asleep.
The Whisperer
When the knock sounded on his door, Reynie was in the midst of a terrible dream. He had written down his letters to Miss Perumal, and Jackson, having found the letters on the desk, was pounding them with his fist. Bang! Bang! Bang! “We’ve got you!” he cried with a wicked laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t be punished! It’s the Waiting Room for you — what fun you’ll have there! And when you’ve disappeared beneath the stinking mud for good, we’ll get your beloved Miss Perumal, too!”
“No!”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” said Jackson. “Isn’t this what you’ve been working for?”
This was an unexpected response, and Reynie, startled, opened his eyes. Jackson stood in the doorway, staring at Reynie with an expression of wild impatience.
“I’m sorry,” Reynie said, coming fully awake. “I was dreaming. What did you say?”
“I said hurry up and get your tunic on. I’m to take you to Mr. Curtain immediately. Today’s your big day! Special privileges, Reynard! Now wake up your skinny bald friend and hustle, will you? I want to get a muffin on the way.” Jackson stepped out of the room to wait.
When, after considerable shaking, Reynie had roused Sticky, the two of them threw on their Messenger uniforms.
“This is it,” Reynie whispered. “We have to be on our toes.”
Sticky nodded. “Good luck.”
They shook hands resolutely.
“It’s about time,” Jackson muttered when they came out. “Now follow me.” He set off in double-time for the cafeteria. It was just before dawn, with no one astir but a few silent Helpers mopping floors, sweeping walkways, or scaling ladders to scrub mildew from ceilings. In the cafeteria, too, the Helpers were already hard at work. Jackson helped himself to a freshly baked blueberry muffin and a glass of cold milk. “Better choke something down quick,” he said to the boys. “You don’t want to be in the Whisperer with an empty stomach. It’s very draining. You need all the energy you can get.”
At this, the first open mention of the Whisperer, goose bumps rose on the boys’ arms. Their stomachs flipped, too, but dutifully they reached for muffins and milk and, just as Jackson said, choked them down. Sticky, already losing his nerve, couldn’t help trying to stall. “What about classes?”
“What do you think all those classes are for, George? I don’t see how you’ve ever made Messenger if that’s how dimwitted you are. You’ll have plenty of time for classes after your session. The Whisperer is what’s important, boys. It’s the whole reason we’re here.”
After all the secrecy that had come before, it was very strange indeed — in fact it was thrilling — to be spoken to with such candor and trust. They really were Messengers at last! Reynie almost had to remind himself that his new position wasn’t an honor to be prized.
“All right, then, swallow and follow,” said Jackson, turning on his heel. The boys gulped their milk and hurried after him. Out on the plaza, in the gray light of dawn, Jackson ordered them to stand still. “If you ever become Executives,” he said, tying cloths over their eyes, “then you’ll be allowed to learn the route to the Whispering Gallery. Until then, it’s blindfolds and no talking. Understand? Now, then, round and round you go.” He grabbed their shoulders and spun them about until they were so dizzy they stumbled and bumped into each other. Jackson allowed himself a moment to laugh. Then he took them by the elbows and set off.
They were marched across the plaza, down a walkway, and finally over a patch of grass. Then came a sort of scuffing, thumping noise — it sounded like Jackson kicking something out of the way with his boot — and the boys were led inside. They went down a short passage, then up some winding stone steps. And then more winding steps. Steps after steps after steps. They must be heading up to the top of the flag tower, Reynie thought. No other place in the Institute could have so many steps.
With their leg muscles burning and chests heaving, the boys finally reached the top. Jackson gave them a few good spins — perhaps just for the fun of it — and removed their blindfolds. They stood in a bright, narrow stone passage. Before them loomed a great metal door.
Jackson pressed a speaker button on the wall. “Your new Messengers are here, sir.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Curtain’s voice through the speaker.
The door slid heavily open.
“What are you waiting for?” Jackson said. He gestured impatiently, mumbling something about numbskulls not taking hints, and the boys stepped through the open doorway. The door slid closed behind them.
“Welcome to the Whispering Gallery!” said Mr. Curtain, spinning his wheelchair away from the desk at which he’d been working. He beckoned them forward with a crook of his finger. “Come in, boys, and take a look around!”
The Whispering Gallery, though quite large, was furnished only with a single desk, two cushions in the corner, and, in the center of the room, a strange contraption resembling an old-fashioned beauty-salon hair dryer. So t
Kate was right, Reynie thought. There is something important behind the highest window.
“If you’re wondering why the Whispering Gallery is so austere,” said Mr. Curtain, “the answer is security. You will find no heavy metal objects or sharp devices lying about, nothing with which my Whisperer might be damaged, nothing to be used as a weapon. The Whisperer’s computer system and power supply are safely protected by two feet of metal and stone. The walls are solid stone as well. The door through which you entered is the only door, and I am the only one who can open it. Control, boys! Control is key. The Whispering Gallery is perfectly controlled.
“I say all this to impress upon you the importance of our project,” Mr. Curtain continued. He gestured for them to sit on the cushions. “Why else would such security be necessary? It is a great honor to be made Messenger, and I hope you will not squander it.”
“No, sir,” the boys said together.
“Here, at last, is your special privilege,” said Mr. Curtain. “Only Messengers are allowed to help me with my project, and you may be assured it is a marvelous project. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what the Whisperer is — am I right?”
The boys nodded.
“Of course I am. My machine cannot help but provoke curiosity. It looks simple, does it not? Only a chair with a helmet? Don’t be fooled! The Whisperer is a miraculous invention — my miraculous invention — and is sophisticated beyond reckoning. Have you ever heard of a machine capable of transmitting thoughts? Of course not! Would you even have thought it possible? Never! And yet it is possible. My Whisperer makes it possible.”
Mr. Curtain waved elegantly at the contraption behind him, rather like a game show hostess displaying fabulous prizes. “It has been fashioned with the human brain as a model — my human brain, in fact, which as you might suspect is quite an excellent one. And it is my brain that controls it! No need for keyboards and computer screens, knobs and dials, bells and whistles. The Whisperer listens to me. For not only is it capable of transmitting thought, but also — to a certain extent — of perceiving thought. And although currently its proper function depends upon my being present and connected —”