The Mysterious Benedict Society

  “Watch him go to polishing his glasses now!” said Martina. “What a weirdo!”

  “Silence!” shouted Jackson from the front of the room. His icy sharp gaze fell on Sticky. “You can say whatever you like when you have permission,” Jackson said, adding: “Right now no one has permission.”

  Paralyzed, Sticky couldn’t even manage to nod.

  Kate, however, was too outraged to hold her tongue. “But it wasn’t Sticky who spoke!”

  Martina, who happened to be sitting right in front of Kate, whirled about with a look of shock. Kate met her gaze defiantly, which surprised Martina even more. Before they could exchange words, though, Jackson had come charging down the aisle to stand over Kate. “Did you raise your hand to ask permission to speak?”

  Kate shook her head, and then, with a bright look, raised her hand.

  “No,” Jackson said. “You don’t have permission to raise your hand. And let me just warn you and your friend,” he said with a glance at Sticky, “it won’t benefit you to challenge a Messenger.”

  Martina ran a hand through her raven-colored hair and nodded with remarkable smugness. Kate’s face burned bright red — she fairly radiated fury — but she held her tongue. Jackson returned to the front of the room, and the students returned to their busy note-taking.

  All except Sticky, who was too upset to concentrate. Instead he stared miserably at Jackson, and then at his other tormentor, Martina, who seemed exceedingly pleased with herself. His gaze was distracted by a movement below Martina’s desk. Kate was slipping her feet back into her shoes. But why had she taken her shoes off? It was too cool for bare feet. Just then Martina shot a glance toward Sticky. Sticky averted his eyes and didn’t look that direction again. He could feel the malice even without looking.

  And so it was that when Jackson dismissed class and Martina leaped from her seat, Sticky heard, but did not see, Martina crashing face-first onto the floor. He glanced over in surprise. Notebooks, papers, and pencils had spilled everywhere, and Martina was raising herself slowly to her hands and knees, spluttering and shaking her head as she tried to get her bearings. Messenger or no, her fumblings prompted a burst of laughter from the other students — except for Kate, who pretended not to notice as she grabbed Sticky’s arm, dragging him toward the door.

  “I tied her shoelaces to the desk,” she whispered. “With my toes.”

  “Great,” Constance said at lunch. “Not only do we have a dangerous secret mission, but now we have enemies, too. Nice work, Kate.”

  Kate laughed. “She was already the boys’ enemy. I just added myself to the list. What did you expect me to do, let her get away with it? She called him bald-headed, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I am bald,” Sticky said, running a hand over his scalp. “It’s my own fault. I used hair remover when I ran away, to disguise myself.”

  “That explains it,” said Reynie. “I’d wondered but was afraid to ask.”

  “Isn’t hair remover supposed to sting like the dickens?” Kate asked.

  “I’d heard that, so I invented my own mixture, adding other ingredients to keep it from stinging.”

  “Did that work?” Constance asked, plainly hoping it didn’t.

  “No,” Sticky admitted. “It felt like my head was on fire, and now it’s taking forever for my hair to grow back! It hasn’t even started!”

  The others smiled. Then grinned. Then giggled. And finally — unable to help themselves — they burst out laughing. Sticky groaned and ducked his head, but at last even he had to smile. For a while their laughter wiped away the troubles at hand, and they were reluctant to give it up.

  But eventually — too soon — their laughter fell away. And unlike Sticky’s hair, the troubles at hand did not hesitate to come back.

  Poison Apples, Poison Worms

  That afternoon in class, Jillson lectured on the national economy. She also spoke about education, crime, the environment, war, taxes, insurance, health and medicine, the justice system . . . and fruit.

  “You see,” Jillson said near the end of the lesson, “all these terrible problems are the result of one thing: bad government! Don’t get me wrong, government is a good thing. Without government you can solve none of the world’s horrible problems — unless you have a bad government, in which case the problems only get more horrible. Sadly, all the world’s governments are bad ones. Like a poison apple” — here Reynie’s ears perked up — “our governments look beautiful, shiny, and wholesome from a distance, but once you’ve partaken of them, they prove quite deadly. What’s more, they shelter more than one wicked official — like poison worms in that poison apple.”

  Poison apples, poison worms, Reynie thought. That was another hidden-message phrase they’d heard through Mr. Benedict’s Receiver. He wasn’t surprised — he knew the classes were connected to the hidden messages — but he did wonder exactly how it all fit together. He felt sure he could figure it out if only —

  Without warning, Reynie’s mood shifted. His optimism drained away, and he was suddenly angry with Jillson — stupid, lecturesome Jillson! — and not just Jillson, either, but . . . really, he was angry with just about everybody he could think of. It was an unusual feeling for Reynie, and very distressing. He felt as though the walls were pressing in on him, as though he wanted to get up and run from the room. He felt like yelling and kicking things — preferably Jillson.

  What was going on? Was the pressure finally getting to him? Completely frazzled, Reynie laid down his pencil and glanced over at Sticky — who was glaring at his quiz as if he wanted to tear it up and toss it into a fire. Oh, no, Reynie thought, he’s bungled it somehow. For a moment he felt mad at Sticky, too. But then Sticky, catching his eye, nodded as usual and gave a feeble thumbs-up. It wasn’t the quiz, then. And now Sticky was staring at Reynie with a concerned expression — which was how Reynie realized he was scowling himself. He looked over at Kate and Constance. Both had their heads in their hands and looked ready to scream. And yet none of the other students seemed affected in the least. So why would only the four of them . . . ?

  Martina’s poisoned us! Reynie thought. He was immediately convinced of it. Martina had slipped something into their lunches — perhaps she’d ordered the Helpers to do it. All his anger now flowed in Martina’s direction.

  When class was finally over, it took Reynie several seconds to realize why the other students were getting up and leaving. Jillson was staring at him and his friends as if they were a bunch of lunatics. “I said go!” she barked. “Or do you want to stay here all day?”

  The four of them bolted from their desks. They needed an emergency meeting.

  Most students were headed to the gym to play games before supper, and Mr. Curtain was not in his favorite spot. The plaza was deserted. The children crossed to the farthest corner, made sure no one was in earshot, and all began talking at once.

  “Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” Reynie asked.

  “What’s this all about?” Kate said.

  “So you feel it, too? I think my head’s going to split open!” Sticky said.

  “My first thought was that Martina poisoned us,” Reynie said, “but —”

  “Poison?” Kate said. “No, I don’t think so. This is all in my head.”

  Reynie and Sticky agreed. It wasn’t a physical problem, exactly; it was something else. But then what was it? The three of them began comparing their symptoms.

  Only Constance said nothing. She listened as the others talked about how irritable and angry they felt, as if they were engaged in a furious argument, and as they spoke, she seemed to be shrinking. It was Reynie who noticed this — that Constance, with a look of anxious bafflement, had begun to crouch down as if to protect herself from an attack.

  “Constance, what is it?” Reynie asked, his brow wrinkling with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s . . . that’s all?” Constance asked in a weak voice. “You just feel kind of annoyed?”

  “Extremely a
nnoyed,” Kate said. “Really, I’ve never felt so cranky in my life.”

  “So you don’t . . . you don’t hear . . . ?” Constance trailed off.

  She didn’t have to finish. Reynie couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it right away. The experience must have rattled every bit of sense out of all their heads. Hadn’t Mr. Benedict specifically predicted this? Most of us will simply feel irritable and confused, Mr. Benedict had said, essentially the way we feel now whenever the television is on and the messages are being broadcast.

  “Mr. Curtain’s boosting the power,” Reynie said gravely, and when Kate and Sticky looked at him, still not comprehending, he said, “It’s the hidden messages. Our minds are reacting to them.”

  Sticky gasped. Kate slapped her forehead. Of course! The hidden messages had begun to transmit directly into their minds — no more need for television, radios, or anything else. All the other students were undisturbed because, just as Mr. Benedict had said, only minds with an unusually powerful love of truth noticed anything was happening.

  “So we can’t avoid them anymore?” Kate said. “Well, that’s depressing.”

  “I think there’s more,” Reynie said. He knelt beside Constance and put his hand on her shoulder — and Constance, for once, didn’t complain. “There is more, isn’t there, Constance?”

  Kate and Sticky looked from Reynie to Constance, who was nodding and hiding her face behind her hands. She actually seemed to be fighting back tears. All of their minds were resisting the hidden messages, but Constance — and only Constance — could hear the Messenger’s voice.

  In rare cases, with exceptionally sensitive minds, Mr. Benedict had said. And here was such a case, such a mind: Constance Contraire. The development shocked them all, especially Constance, who was so disturbed by it she spent the evening with her head under her pillow. She was no better by the time Kate smuggled her into the boys’ room for their meeting.

  “It might be useful, you know,” Sticky whispered, trying to cheer her up. “A way to gauge Mr. Curtain’s progress. On a really, really awful day, one of us might not be able to tell the difference between a normal bad mood and a hidden-message mood. But if you can hear the actual voices — well, then, you’re like our canary in the coal mine!”

  “A canary in a coal mine?” Constance mumbled without looking up.

  Sticky failed to notice Reynie’s warning look. “Oh, yes — miners used to bring canaries with them to gauge oxygen levels in the mine. If the canary died, they knew the oxygen was running out and they’d better get out of there.”

  “If the canary died?” Constance repeated.

  Sticky looked suddenly regretful.

  “That was perhaps an unfortunate comparison,” Reynie said.

  “The point is you’re important,” Kate said. “Okay?”

  “I already knew that,” Constance snapped. “I didn’t need all this mumbo-jumbo in my head to tell me. And I definitely didn’t need Martina Crowe in there whispering it — she was the one doing the last message, in case you’re wondering. I dislike her enough outside my head, much less inside it. In fact, I think I’ll write an insulting poem about her . . . although, come to think of it, ‘Martina’ makes for a tricky rhyme.”

  Reynie, Kate, and Sticky glanced at one another with cautious optimism. Constance seemed to be feeling a little better. They all were, actually. They had spent the evening adjusting to the hidden-message broadcasts (there had been three more since Jillson’s class) — trying not to snarl at one another, or smash their fists on desktops, or slam drawers. Studying had been positively excruciating, like trying to read while someone bangs out an annoying tune on a piano — and with fingers on the wrong keys, at that. But an hour had passed since the last broadcast, and the children’s moods had improved. Which helped them focus on the fact that their situation, unfortunately, had not.

  The thing to come was getting closer. Mr. Curtain was not broadcasting his messages at full-power yet — otherwise all four of them would hear voices, not just Constance. But matters had obviously worsened, and the children had only just arrived on the island. Were they already too late? What should they do?

  “Coast is clear,” Sticky said when he’d climbed onto the television and looked out the window. He took the flashlight from Kate. “What should I say?”

  “Mr. Benedict will already know the messages are stronger,” Reynie reflected. “He and the others are surely feeling it, too. Just tell him that Constance is hearing voices. He hadn’t expected that.”

  “Got it,” Sticky said, turning to the window. “‘Constance hearing voices.’ Here goes.”

  “But don’t use her real name!” Reynie warned.

  “Oh, right,” Sticky said sheepishly. “Of course not.”

  “Are you just trying to get me caught, George Washington?” Constance grumped.

  “Sorry,” Sticky said, gritting his teeth as he always did when Constance used his full name. “I’ll just say, um . . .” He looked to the others for help.

  Reynie glanced at Constance, who was scowling impressively, ready to complain about whatever they suggested. Resisting the first thing that came to mind, Reynie suggested they refer to her as “the smallest one.”

  Constance grudgingly accepted this, and soon Sticky had sent the message. A few minutes later, he received a response from the mainland:

  Time is shorter than we thought.

  Thus to get what must be got

  You must become what you are not.

  “It sounds like he wants us to put a rush on things,” said Sticky, climbing down from the television.

  “Fine by me,” said Kate. “But how, exactly? What does he mean, ‘what must be got’?”

  “Whatever it is, we have to become something different to get it,” Reynie said.

  “But what could that be?” Constance said.

  They all looked at one another. None of them had any idea. They didn’t even know where to start.

  A Surprising Suggestion

  The message broadcasts were hard on all of them. They felt another one during lunch the next day (it was Corliss Danton, according to Constance), which had them gritting their teeth, growling at each other, and fighting the urge to throw silverware. And another came during the evening, so that they were compelled to study with their nerves being plucked like banjo strings. The last broadcast finally relented just as Reynie was closing his notebook. He laid his head on his desk in relief.

  “I am so glad that’s over,” said Sticky, who had spent studytime lying on his bed grimacing. “You finished?”

  With an effort, Reynie nodded.

  They heard Jackson’s booming voice in the hallway announcing lights-out.

  “I’ll get the light,” Kate said, dropping to the floor behind Reynie.

  Reynie gasped and fell out of his chair. Sticky banged his head on the top bunk. Kate switched off the light and climbed onto a chair to help Constance down from the ceiling.

  “Maybe you should start knocking,” Sticky grumbled, rubbing his head.

  “And spoil the surprise?” Kate asked.

  “Listen,” Reynie said, scrambling back up. “I’ve been going over Mr. Benedict’s message in my head all day, and I think I’m starting to figure it out. What is it Mr. Benedict sent us here to get?”

  “Information,” Sticky said. “You think that’s what he meant by ‘what can be got’? Just information?”

  “Secret information,” Reynie said. “Which is why we need to become Messengers as soon as possible. We must become what we are not.”

  Constance rolled her eyes. “But that’s obvious! We already know that.”

  “You’re right,” Reynie admitted. “That’s why I said I’m starting to figure the message out — I think there must be more to it. I’m just not sure what, except that we need to hurry up.”

  “We’re going as fast as we can, though,” Kate said. “You boys are making perfect scores on the quizzes, and Constance and I — well, we’re
doing our best, aren’t we?” She glanced doubtfully at Constance. “At least I know I am.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Constance said, frowning.

  “I just don’t want to speak for you,” said Kate evasively.

  “My point,” Reynie interjected, “was that we have to find a way for you and Constance to do better on the quizzes.”

  “Ugh,” Kate said, heaving a dramatic sigh. She collapsed onto the floor, throwing out her arms as if she’d been knocked flat. “To tell the truth, I think I’m beyond help. My brain simply won’t absorb that nonsense, no matter how hard I try.”

  “Same here,” said Constance. “No way can I improve on those quizzes. I’m too tired to study any more than I already do.”

  “Which is hardly any,” Kate muttered.

  Constance flared. “Let’s see you study with voices spouting gibberish in your head!”

  “At least I’ve been trying!”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Reynie said. “Let’s go back to Mr. Benedict’s message. What can we think of that we all are not?”

  “Grown-ups?” Sticky suggested.

  “True,” Reynie said gently. “But I don’t think we can hurry up and get older, can we?”

  Constance pointed out that none of them were antelopes eating canteloupes, or textbooks with hexed looks, or cattle from Seattle.

  “You’re just trying to annoy us, aren’t you?” Kate said.

  Constance grinned.

  “The fact is,” Sticky said in a defeated tone, “there are an infinite number of things that we aren’t.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Benedict expects us to figure this out,” said Reynie, “so we should be able to narrow it down. Let’s consider what he knows about us — something we all have in common, something that could be changed.”

  “He only just met us,” Kate pointed out. “He can’t know that much about us, can he?”

  “Well, he knows we’re orphans and runaways,” Sticky offered, then quickly added, “I know, I know. We can’t all suddenly have families. So what else?”

  “We’re all gifted,” said Constance. “We all passed his silly tests.”