The Mysterious Benedict Society

  “Actually,” Reynie observed, “those all sound like rules.”

  Jackson rolled his icy blue eyes. “This is your first day, so I don’t expect you to know much, Reynard. But this is one of the rules of life you’ll learn at the Institute: Many things that sound like rules aren’t actually rules, and it always sounds as if there are more rules than there really are.”

  “That sounds like two rules I’ll learn,” Reynie said.

  “My point exactly. Now come along, everybody. We need to hurry — you’re to join the other new arrivals for Mr. Curtain’s welcome speech. Constance, stop dawdling. You, too, George, hustle it up.”

  “Would you mind calling me Sticky?” the boy asked, hustling it up.

  “Is Sticky your real name?” asked Jackson.

  “It’s what everybody calls me,” Sticky replied.

  “But is it official? Is there an official document somewhere that declares ‘Sticky’ to be your official name?”

  “Um, no, but —”

  “Well, if it isn’t official, then it can’t be real, now can it?”

  Sticky just stared.

  “Good boy, George,” said Jackson, leading them back toward the classrooms.

  Beware the Gemini

  The children were shown into an ordinary classroom, where sunlight streamed through the windows, the desks sat empty, and an Executive waited to speak with Jackson and Jillson. As the children chose their seats, the Executives held a private discussion. Then Jillson and the other Executive hurried out.

  “Shouldn’t be long,” Jackson told the children. “The other group’s finishing their tour, and apparently our Recruiters have brought in some unexpected new arrivals. They’re being admitted right now, so we’ll start a few minutes late. Okay?” He stepped out of the room; then he stepped back in. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” the children replied.

  Jackson shook his head scornfully and withdrew.

  “He’s a sweetheart,” Kate said.

  “I don’t know how you can joke,” said Sticky. “My stomach’s all in knots.”

  Reynie’s stomach felt much the same. “Did you hear what Jillson said about mine shafts?”

  “You bet I did,” Kate said. “It makes no sense. Why set traps and then warn us about them?”

  “They don’t want us to leave the paths,” Reynie speculated. “And if we do, they want to know it — they want to catch us at it.”

  Kate’s blue eyes shone with excitement. “If that’s true, there might be traps everywhere.”

  “You two aren’t helping my stomach,” Sticky said.

  Soon the door swung open and a dozen other new arrivals entered, escorted by several Executives and a pair of men wearing fine suits and two watches apiece. There followed a flurry of introductions, desk-choosing, and general mayhem, during which the Executives watched the children very intently, as if they didn’t quite trust them not to bolt from the room or start a brawl. Reynie was painfully aware of their eyes upon him — he already felt conspicuous. But new kids always felt conspicuous, he reminded himself. And so he smiled and nodded, trying hard to seem as happy and eager as the other newcomers.

  His fellow members of the Mysterious Benedict Society were making the same attempt, some with less success than others. Kate smiled charmingly. Sticky managed a grimace that resembled a smile, though it also resembled the expression you might wear in a sandstorm. Constance nodded a few times in a friendly way — until the nodding grew sleepy and her eyelids drooped. Reynie nudged her. Constance jerked her head upright and blinked in surprise, as if she didn’t quite know where she was.

  As it happened, this was exactly how a couple of the other newcomers looked — a hefty, bell-shaped girl and a wiry boy sitting near the front. Both wore dazed expressions and ill-fitting clothes (hers were too small, his too large), and both had wet hair from recent baths. Except for Constance, they were the only children who didn’t seem happy and excited. Perhaps they were just sleepy, though you would have thought fresh baths and the dread of a new school would have gotten them wide awake.

  Reynie saw one of the men in suits glance at the dazed-looking children — giving them a little wink and a friendly smile — and suddenly it hit him. Recruiters, Jackson had said. That must be what the Institute scouts were called. Which probably meant that the “unexpected new arrivals” Jackson had mentioned were . . . Could it be? Could these kids really have been kidnapped? And they just sat there looking sleepy? That seemed unlikely, Reynie thought. He must be missing something. And yet . . .

  Reynie’s attention was drawn away. The commotion was dying down. Jillson had taken her place at the front, apparently waiting for a cue from Jackson, who stood in the doorway. Jackson nodded, and Jillson raised her hands for silence. A hush fell over the room. Then, in a booming voice, Jillson announced, “And now, everyone, it is our great pleasure to introduce to you the esteemed founder, president, and principal of our beloved Institute: Mr. Ledroptha Curtain!”

  Everyone watched the door with anxious eyes. For a long, expectant pause, they heard nothing except a sort of distant whine, but the whine grew louder by the moment, giving way to a tremendous grind and screech — as of a car changing gears and spinning its tires — and into the room shot a man in a motorized wheelchair, moving so quickly and with such apparent recklessness that every child in the room scooted backward in fear of being struck. Mr. Curtain had perfect control of his chair, however, and as he raced down the rows he expertly dodged the children’s feet and the sharp corners of their desks, smiling as he went.

  The wheelchair was unlike any they’d ever seen: It had four evenly spaced wheels, like a cart, with button controls on the armrests and pedal controls beneath each foot. Mr. Curtain was snugged into the padded chair with a seat belt across his chest and lap, and the chair rolled so quickly that his thick white hair flew back from his head. He wore large round glasses with silver reflective lenses, so that his eyes couldn’t be seen; his cheeks and chin were reddened by a recent shave; and his nose was large and lumpy, like a vegetable.

  His entrance would have been a shocking sight for any child, but it was far worse for those of the Mysterious Benedict Society. That nose (so much like a vegetable) and that hair (so thick and white) would have been enough to give them a start, but that suit he wore — that green plaid suit — was the clincher. With faces aghast, the four children gaped at the man, and then at one another, for they saw at once that Mr. Curtain was Mr. Benedict himself.

  Reynie’s mind was racing, searching for an explanation. Had Mr. Benedict been kidnapped? Was he being forced somehow to pretend he was Mr. Curtain? But why? And how could he have done it so quickly? They’d seen Mr. Benedict just that morning. Perhaps Mr. Benedict had a split personality, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? That seemed unlikely, too. But everything was unlikely these days, and Reynie preferred almost any explanation to the one that seemed most plausible: For some awful, unknown reason, Mr. Benedict had tricked them.

  Even as Reynie thought this, the man introduced as Mr. Curtain brought his chair to a screeching stop, whirled it about, and shot forward to sit right beside him. He positioned his chair so perfectly that his face was mere inches from Reynie’s — so close that Reynie could see his own alarmed and searching face reflected in those shiny silver lenses; so close that he smelled the man’s pungent breath. And then Mr. Benedict — that is, Mr. Curtain — leaned closer still. Any closer and that lumpy nose would poke Reynie in the eye. “What is it, young man? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  Reynie thought fast. Either Mr. Benedict — Mr. Curtain — somehow didn’t recognize him, or else he was pretending not to. “It’s . . . your nose! It looks like a pink cucumber!”

  His friends stared at Reynie in amazement, but several children burst into giggles. Mr. Curtain frowned, his fists clenched, his face darkened — and yet for a long time he did not speak. His fury seemed to be building up to an explosion. Reynie waited in mounting dread. But then the co
lor drained from Mr. Curtain’s face, his frown changed into a satisfied expression . . . and he even smiled.

  “You children,” he said. “I always forget. Children are capable of such open rudeness. That’s all right, young man, I won’t hold it against you. We need students who aren’t afraid to speak the truth. What is your name?”

  “Reynard Muldoon, sir. But everyone calls me Reynie.”

  “Welcome, Reynard,” said Mr. Curtain, and with this he turned and rocketed to the front of the room, where he spun once more to face the students, throwing his arms wide. “Welcome, Reynard Muldoon, and welcome, all of you! Welcome to the Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened!”

  There was a burst of applause, and Reynie and his friends again glanced at one another — more secretly this time — with looks of unhappy bewilderment. Everything’s backward, Reynie was thinking, trying desperately to make sense of it all. Mr. Benedict puts you at ease, but Mr. Curtain terrifies you. Mr. Benedict admires children, but Mr. Curtain looks down on them. And Mr. Benedict seems to know everything about you, but Mr. Curtain seems to know nothing . . . at least not yet.

  Meanwhile Mr. Curtain had begun his welcoming speech: “At other academies,” he declared, “children are only taught how to survive. Reading skills, mathematics, art and music lessons — such a waste of a student’s time! Here at the Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened,” Mr. Curtain boomed, writing the name out on a chalkboard and circling all the capital letters, “we show our students how to L.I.V.E.!”

  There followed another great round of applause, but Reynie was still thinking, Everything’s backward. And gazing at the circled letters on the chalkboard, he felt a sudden, terrible chill. For LIVE, spelled backward, is EVIL.

  As Jillson had explained, the children were free to leave their lights and televisions on “all night long,” if they chose, provided their rooms were dark by ten o’clock. When that hour struck, Reynie was peering through a crack in the open door. Sure enough — just as Kate had predicted — an Executive was on patrol. This one, a gangly teenager with gigantic feet, had just turned off the corridor light, and in the relative darkness was checking to see if any light escaped from beneath the students’ doors. Reynie switched off their own light and quietly closed the door.

  “Who’s out there?” Sticky asked.

  “S.Q. Pedalian. Remember him? Kate joked that ‘S.Q.’ must be short for ‘Sasquatch.’”

  A knock sounded on their door. When Reynie opened it, S.Q. Pedalian stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. His good-natured face, high above them, was just visible in the moonlight coming in through their window. “You fellows need to keep it down,” he said, though not unkindly. “You’re new, so I thought perhaps you wouldn’t understand the rules, or lack of them. And sure enough, when I put my ear to your door and listened, I could hear a sort of murmur, which means you were talking, and that won’t do. You’re free to talk, of course, but only if you don’t make any sound.”

  “Okay,” the boys mouthed soundlessly.

  “Okay, just so you know. Have a good night now,” he said, pulling the door closed and crying out in pain. The door opened quickly, S.Q. withdrew the tip of his foot, and the door closed again.

  “That must happen to him a lot,” Reynie whispered.

  From above them came the rustling sound of a ceiling panel being slid aside, and in the glow of a flashlight beam they saw Constance’s dusty, cobweb-covered, exasperated face. Sticky fetched a chair, and soon Constance and Kate had come down to join them. Kate turned off her flashlight just as a cloud passed over the moon outside. Instantly the room was shrouded in gloom.

  “What can it possibly mean?” Kate whispered.

  “It’s a nasty trick,” Constance said.

  “I think he’s crazy,” said Sticky. “What do you think, Reynie?”

  Reynie had pondered this all day. “I think we should send a message to the shore. If we haven’t been tricked — if Mr. Benedict is being forced to act against his will, or if there’s some other explanation — the reply may give us some idea what to do.”

  The others agreed, and Sticky was elected to send the message, he being the quickest with Morse code. Climbing onto the television cabinet, which stood beneath the window, Sticky peered out over the plaza below. At the edge of it he saw a familiar figure facing away from the Institute, gazing down toward the bridge. “We’ll have to wait. I can see Mr. Benedict — I guess I mean Mr. Curtain.”

  “What’s he doing?” Constance asked.

  “Just sitting in his chair doing nothing.”

  “Maybe he’s contemplating what a terrific madman he is,” Kate said.

  “Hold on,” Sticky said. “A couple of Executives have gone out — and now they’re all leaving together. Boy, he sure can move fast in that thing. They’re puffing to keep up.” Sticky looked in all directions. The plaza was empty, and he saw no lookouts on the paths, no boats on the water, no one on the distant bridge. “Okay, the coast is clear.”

  Kate handed him her flashlight, and in Morse code Sticky flashed their message: We see Mr. B when we see Mr. C. How can this be?

  They had decided to be as brief and cryptic as possible, in case an unseen Executive spied the signals. Now, as they waited minute after long minute for a response, they began to worry the message hadn’t been understood. Or worse: that it hadn’t been seen at all.

  “There’s no one there,” Constance said loudly. The other three shushed her. She stuck out her tongue but continued in a whisper: “This proves it was a trick. The others are all in on it. They wanted to get us on this island, and now we’ll never get off again.”

  “Let’s be patient,” Reynie said. “If they don’t respond soon, we’ll send the message again. If they don’t reply to that, then I’ll have to agree with Constance: We’ve been tricked, or else something has gone terribly wrong, and we’d better start thinking about how to get away.”

  “Hold on!” said Sticky. “I see a light in the trees! They’re flashing a response.”

  The others held their breaths for what seemed a terribly long time. Then Sticky whispered, “Boy, when Rhonda said they were going to be cryptic, she meant it.”

  “So what’s the message?” Kate asked.

  “It’s some kind of riddle,” Sticky said. He recited it for them:

  “When looking in my looking glass

  I spied a trusted face. Alas,

  Not to be taken for him am I.

  Beware, therefore, the Gemini.”

  “Oh, that certainly clears things up,” said Constance, rolling her eyes.

  “Sounds like he looked in the mirror and saw himself, then decided he was not himself,” said Kate. “I’m afraid that does clear things up — Mr. Benedict really is crazy.”

  Sticky shook his head. “It’s not Mr. Benedict who sent the message, remember? I just saw him down on the plaza.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Kate. “It must be one of the others, then. But what are they trying to tell us?”

  Reynie was chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Let’s hear the message again, Sticky.”

  Sticky repeated it.

  “What’s a Gemini, anyway?” asked Constance.

  “A constellation, a sign of the zodiac, or a person born under that sign,” said Sticky.

  “You’re not very helpful, George Washington,” said Constance. “Who are the zodiacs, and why are they so keen on making signs?”

  “The zodiac is more like a diagram that has to do with stars and planets and whatnot,” said Reynie, trying to make it simple. “Your zodiac sign has to do with when you’re born. If you’re born in late April, for example, you’re a Taurus, the sign of the bull. You can also be a Pisces, the sign of the fish, or a Capricorn, the, uh —”

  “Sign of the goat,” said Sticky.

  “Right, sign of the goat, and so on — you get the idea. Your sign depends on your birthday.”

  “So now we’re supposed to find out when somebody was born? Who? T
his is ridiculous!” Constance declared.

  “I think I know what the message means,” Kate said in a suddenly uncomfortable tone. “It’s saying some people aren’t who they seem, that we can’t trust the people we thought we could. In other words, Constance is right — we’ve been tricked. Whoever sent us the message must have been duped as well. It’s Rhonda or Number Two trying to warn us.”

  “It’s a little late to warn us, isn’t it?” Reynie pointed out. “And what’s this about a Gemini?”

  Kate looked very uncomfortable indeed. “She must think one of us took part in the deception. Someone had a secret pact with Mr. Benedict to help get the others on the island.”

  “You’re saying one of us is the Gemini?” said Sticky, appalled.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kate. “It’s the only thing I can think of.”

  At this suggestion everyone grew quiet, looking at one another with unpleasant feelings of suspicion.

  “Well, there’s no point in putting it off,” Kate said. “If I’m right, we can figure this out pretty quickly. Let’s tell each other our birthdays.”

  Everybody but Constance gave their birth dates at once — not a Gemini among them. But Constance refused. “This is nonsense. Even if I were a Gemini, which I’m not, we don’t know for sure that’s what the message means.”

  “If you’re not a Gemini,” Sticky said, “why don’t you prove it?”

  “You prove it yourself,” Constance snapped. “How do we know you didn’t lie? Can you prove when you were born, Mr. Capricorn?”

  “Uh . . . ,” Sticky began, for of course he could not.

  Constance turned to Kate. “What about you, Miss Taurus? Can you prove that you’re for us?”

  Kate hesitated, trying to think of an indignant response that rhymed. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to rhyme with “Constance.”

  “Can anybody here prove it?” Constance challenged.

  “She’s right,” Reynie said, with a feeling of great relief. “There’s no way to prove it.” (Even in the dim moonlight he noted Constance’s look of gratitude — she’d been very worried about being considered a traitor.) “That’s actually good news,” Reynie went on, “because I’m convinced Mr. Benedict wouldn’t send a message that made us turn against one another — not if there wasn’t some way of proving the truth. The message must mean something else.”