The Mysterious Benedict Society (20 page)

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.”

“You keep forgetting,” Sticky said. “Mr. Benedict is here on the island. He’s not sending us any messages. He can’t be both places at once.”

“That’s it!” Reynie cried. The others shushed him.

“That’s it,” he repeated, this time in an excited whisper. “Both places at once! Sticky, what’s the sign for a Gemini?”

“Sign of the twin,” Sticky said offhandedly. His eyes widened. “Wait a minute!”

“That’s right,” said Reynie. “I think Mr. Benedict has a long lost brother.”

As is always the case with a society, some arguing remained to be done. Kate wanted to know why Mr. Benedict hadn’t told them he had a twin on the island, to which Reynie replied that he probably hadn’t known himself. But if he hadn’t known it
then
, Kate persisted, how did he know it
now
?

“The looking glass,” Reynie said with a grin. “Remember? ‘
When looking in my looking glass I spied a trusted face
.’ Mr. Benedict wasn’t referring to his mirror — he meant his telescope! They just set them up today, remember?”

“So he saw Mr. Curtain for the first time today,” said Sticky, “when looking through his telescope.”

“I’ll bet it was quite a shock,” Reynie said.

“But how could Mr. Benedict not know he had a twin?” Kate asked. “They were
born
together.”

“They must have been separated as babies,” Reynie said. “Mr. Benedict told me he was an orphan. When his parents died, he was sent here from Holland to live with his aunt. Mr. Curtain must have been sent somewhere else.”

“But they’re both geniuses, and they’ve always been interested in the same things,” Kate said, her imagination catching on, “and so at last they’ve been drawn together!”

“Wow,” said Sticky.

“Uh-huh. I’m sleepy,” said Constance, who chose not to be impressed.

Reynie ignored her. “It’s strange news but good news. At least now we know we haven’t been tricked. Sticky, better send them a message that says we understand.”

Sticky did so, and at once the light in the woods began flashing a response. Sticky watched closely, relating the words as they came:
Good job. Good night. Good lu
...

“They stopped signaling,” Sticky whispered, frowning. In a moment he saw the reason. “Executives! A pair of them have gone out onto the plaza. They’re just standing around talking. Now they’re sitting on a bench. Looks like they’re going to stay awhile.”

“The message was almost finished, anyway,” Kate said with a terrific yawn, “and frankly, I’m toasted. Can’t we call it a night?”

Reynie and Sticky agreed, but Constance was incredulous. “How can we call it a night? We don’t even know what they were going to say!”

Kate laughed. “Good grief, Constance! Are you joking?”

Constance was indignant. “Are
you
? It couldn’t possibly have been ‘good grief’! The second word started with ‘lu.’”

Startled, Kate opened her mouth to reply, but Reynie cut her off. “It’s a good point, Constance. In fact I’m pretty sure they were going to say ‘Good luck.’ Don’t you think?”

Constance seemed skeptical about this. After all, she said, they couldn’t be
sure
that’s what the word was going to be. But as she was sleepier than any of them — she’d been rubbing her eyes for an hour — she consented to adjourn the meeting.

“Meeting adjourned,” the others said.

T
he Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened was unlike other schools. For one thing, the cafeteria food smelled good and tasted even better. Beyond that, there were no textbooks, no field trips, no report cards, no roll call (if you were missing, an Executive came to find you), no rickety film projectors, no lockers, no team sports, no library, and, weirdly enough, no mirrors to be found anywhere. Nor was there any separation between beginning and advanced students: Class groups were assigned at random, regardless of age or accomplishment, and everyone in that group sat in the same classrooms together, learning the same lessons. The lessons had been designed by Mr. Curtain himself, and when all of them had been gotten through, they were repeated from the beginning. Thus all the lessons were eventually reviewed many times — and the students who learned them best became Messengers.

None of this was familiar to the members of the Mysterious Benedict Society. And yet, in certain ways, the Institute did remind them of other schools: Rote memorization of lessons was discouraged but required; class participation was encouraged but rarely permitted; and although quizzes were given
every day
, in
every class
, there was always at least one student who groaned, another who acted surprised, and another who begged the teacher, in vain, not to give it.

“Time’s up!” S.Q. Pedalian called out during the morning class one day. “Pass me your quizzes, everyone — and no dallying, please. A stitch in time saves time, you know.”

“Nine,” corrected a Messenger in the middle row. Reynie recognized her from his other classes. A tall, athletic teenager with piercing eyes and raven-black hair, she was much older — and bolder — than most of the students, and had a reputation as the leader among Messengers. Her name was Martina Crowe.

“Nine stitches?” S.Q. said. “No, Martina, I’m certain it’s just one stitch.”

“No, a stitch in time saves
nine
,” Martina scoffed.

“Exactly,” S.Q. replied.

With the quizzes all collected, the room fell silent as S.Q. went through the pages, marking grades in his book. It was the hourly ritual. In every class, an Executive first presented the day’s material, then the material was reviewed — and sometimes the
review
was reviewed — and then the students were given a quiz over the previous day’s lesson. If the material weren’t so strange, no doubt it would have been easily mastered.

Today, the Mysterious Benedict Society’s third full day of classes, S.Q.’s lesson had been called “Personal Hygiene: Unavoidable Dangers and What Must Be Done to Avoid Them.” Like all the lessons at the Institute, this one was a barrage of details — pages and pages worth — but the gist was that sickness, like a hungry predator, lurked in every nook and cranny. Every touchable surface was a disease waiting to happen, every speck of dust an allergen poised to swell your nose and clog your ducts, every toothbrush bristle a bacterial playground. On and on it went, and all of it was greatly exaggerated, Reynie thought, though not entirely untrue. What made the lesson so confusing was the “logical conclusion” S.Q. said must be drawn: Because it was impossible, in the end, to protect yourself from
anything
— no matter how hard you tried — it was important to try as hard as you could to protect yourself from
everything
.

There was some kind of truth hidden in there, Reynie thought, but it was camouflaged with nonsense. No wonder it gave students trouble. Luckily, he and Sticky had been making perfect scores. To confirm this, Reynie glanced over at his friend, who gave a small nod and a thumbs-up. Probably wasn’t even difficult for him — Sticky remembered everything he laid eyes on. So far, so good. Reynie twisted in his seat to look at Kate. She puffed her cheeks, crossed her eyes, and put her hands to her head as if she thought it might pop.
Not
good. Reynie decided not to look at Constance; his optimism had been spoiled enough.

The other students sat mostly in stupors, worn out from the class, or else were scouring their notes in hopes of discovering they’d done better than they thought. The Messengers, though — there were four in the class, wearing their snappy white tunics and blue sashes — were indulging in a peculiar habit Reynie had noticed. Every few moments one of them would glance at the door, eyes focused with keen expectation. Martina Crowe was especially fixated.

They were waiting to be called out by an Executive — called away for their “secret privileges.” And whenever an Executive
did
appear in the doorway — as Jackson did now — every Messenger in the room stiffened with anticipation.

“S.Q.,” Jackson announced. “I need Corliss Danton and Sylvie Biggs.”

The Messengers in question leaped from their desks, hastily gathering their things. With beaming faces and nary a backward glance, they followed Jackson out. Martina Crowe stared hungrily after them.

“For the newcomers among us,” S.Q. said, “let me remind you that you, too, could be privy to the special privileges enjoyed by our Messengers. Study hard! Especially you brand-new recruits — who are doing very well, by the way. Rosie Gardener, Eustace Crust…
very
well done. You each got several answers correct. Keep up the good work.” He smiled encouragingly toward the back of the room and returned to his grading.

Reynie turned in his seat to see whom S.Q. was speaking to — and then he could hardly stop staring.
New recruits
, S.Q. had called them, and indeed, these were the two whose dazed expressions had caught Reynie’s attention the first day — the bell-shaped girl and the wiry boy he’d suspected of being kidnapped. They scarcely seemed the same children now. Their looks of sleepy confusion had disappeared, replaced by a look of purpose, even of pleasure, in their eyes. These were not the expressions of children who had been kidnapped and secreted away against their will. But then why had they been escorted by Recruiters? And why else would they be called “recruits”?

Reynie suspected himself of leaping to conclusions. He used to think he was good at understanding people — Miss Perumal had told him so more than once — but these kids were a mystery to him. Somehow he was getting it all wrong; he had to be. And speaking of getting it wrong, Reynie’s eyes now fell on Constance, sound asleep with her face on her desk. Reynie felt suddenly depressed. He needed to stop turning around.

S.Q. finished grading the quizzes and stacked the papers on the edge of his desk. “Okay, everyone, class dismissed. You may check your quizzes as you leave. And someone had better wake Miss Contraire. I’m fairly certain she’s alive — I saw her twitch. Reynard Muldoon and George Washington, please stay after class. I need to speak with you.”

Reynie’s throat tightened, and he glanced at Sticky, who looked as if he’d been stung by a hornet. Were they suspected of something? As the others filed out of the classroom, Kate gave the boys a meaningful look.
Good luck
, her eyes said. Constance stumbled blearily past without looking at them, and then the two boys started up to S.Q.’s desk.

Their path was suddenly cut off by Martina Crowe, who fixed them with a stare of barely contained fury. Startled, the boys stepped back, as if they’d come upon a rattlesnake.

“That’s right,” Martina hissed. “Step. Back.” She glared at them, radiating menace. Reynie wondered what to do. Should he ask what was wrong? Would this encourage her to attack?

“Martina?” S.Q. said from his desk. “Do you need something?”

“I know why you want to speak with them,” Martina said, not taking her eyes from the boys’ alarmed faces.

“Good for you. Now, I
do
need to speak with them, so please excuse us.”

“I’ll go,” Martina said. “But not far.” She leaned toward the boys and whispered, “Do you hear me? Not far!”

Certainly not far
enough
, Reynie thought as she stalked from the room. Why was she so angry? Did she suspect them of something, too? Trembling now, the boys approached the desk.

S.Q. looked grave. “I’m afraid you two are in hot water.”

“But why?” asked Reynie. Sticky wobbled as if he might fall down.

“You have Martina on edge, that’s why. Frankly, fellows, I’m simply astoundished. Or rather, I should say,
astonded
. No, that’s not, not quite —”

“Astonished?” Reynie prompted. “Astounded?”

S.Q. nodded. “Those, too. Furthermore, I’m amazed. How are you boys doing so well on your quizzes? You’re making perfect scores! I think Martina overheard me talking about it with another Executive, by the way, which is why she dislikes you now.”

Sticky regained his balance. Reynie’s breathing slowed. They weren’t in trouble, after all. Except, for some reason, with Martina Crowe.

S.Q. gave them an appraising look. “How do you explain your grades? It’s unlikely anyone is helping you. You’re brand new, and other students naturally shun new kids, so
they
wouldn’t be helping you.”

“I remember things,” said Sticky simply.

“I try hard,” said Reynie.

S.Q. looked as if this was just what he’d suspected. “Rememberingness and effortfulness, both fine qualities. It seems you two have an abundant supply. I just wanted to congratulate you and tell you to keep it up.”

“Like Eustace and Rosie?” Reynie asked.

“Oh, those two? They’re a different case, boys. They’re special recruits. Special recruits get extra attention in the early days, by order of Mr. Curtain. They’re a little slow to come round, and they need encouragement. But you watch, one day they’ll be top students. Special recruits often end up as Messengers, and many become Executives. Take Jackson and Jillson, for example — they were special recruits themselves.”

“What makes special recruits so special?” Sticky asked. He almost sounded jealous.

S.Q. seemed troubled by this question. “Well, as for that, I can’t really say, uh, here nor there. All you need to know is — well, you don’t need to know anything. Except for the material, that is. Obviously you must know that. And how to… actually, I suppose there are many things you
should
know, but —” He checked himself, cleared his throat, and said, “Just work hard, boys, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”