The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  “It’s a deal, then,” Nicholas said. “If we find the treasure, we share it. And in the meantime we swear ourselves to absolute secrecy.”

  They shook hands.

  “An actual treasure,” said John, grinning now. “What do you imagine we’d do with it?”

  “Escape, of course!” Nicholas said with a laugh. “No more ducking and hiding, always on the lookout for thugs like the Spiders. No more thickheaded staff running our lives. We’d be independent!”

  John shook his head as if he truly couldn’t believe it. He went to stand in the center of the turntable and gazed up at the overcast sky. “I don’t think my imagination has caught up yet, Nick. I suppose I used to think about the future sometimes, but now—” He shrugged. “Well, for a long time now everything has been as cloudy as that sky.” He turned to Nicholas again. “You’ve got enough imagination for both of us, though, don’t you?”

  “You bet I do!” Nicholas said, and he began to pace excitedly about the room, gesturing with his hands. “First of all, we’ll go to Stonetown. It’s the biggest city around, with plenty of shops and antique dealers and all that sort of thing. We’ll sell a little of the treasure right away, to get us set up. Then we can take our time figuring out what we want to do next.”

  “You’re not worried it will look fishy?” John asked. “Two kids on their own?”

  Nicholas waved him off. “Oh, as for that, I’ll make up a story. I can be very persuasive, you know, and everybody seems to trust you the moment they meet you. Our parents will always be in a shop around the corner, or in bed with the flu, or in a business meeting—whatever we like—and meanwhile we’ll do whatever we like!”

  “What about school?” John was watching Nicholas pace the floor with a look of growing excitement.

  “We can send you to the best private school, if you want,” Nicholas replied. “If you pay enough money, nobody asks questions. As for me, though, I’m in no hurry to go to school. School just slows me down.”

  John laughed. “Sure, let’s forget about school for now. So what will we do instead?”

  “For one thing, we’ll eat like kings! We’ll live above a delicatessen, and our icebox will always be crammed full of good things. And I’m going to have about a million books—that much is for sure.” He glanced at John. “You’ll be welcome to borrow them, as long as you’re careful with them.”

  “Thanks ever so much,” John said wryly.

  “And we’ll live near a park, where we can meet lots of other kids and spend as much time as we want—we can always be the last to go home. And we can walk down to the harbor and watch the ships come in. And we’ll never miss a parade—not one!”

  “We’ll keep busy, then,” John said in an approving tone.

  “Next to us,” Nicholas confirmed, “bees will look lazy.” And he went on enumerating other things they would do in the city, from attending baseball games to visiting museums to simply eating ice cream and listening to whatever they pleased on the radio.

  The subject was so appealing, and the boys so absorbed in discussing it (with Nicholas doing most of the talking and John encouraging him), that before they knew it almost an hour had passed. They might have kept going even then if John had not succumbed to a yawn, the sight of which brought Nicholas back to the present.

  “Of course, we do have to find the treasure first,” he conceded. “We’ll get cracking tomorrow night. Right now I have something else to show you, if you don’t think it’s already too late. Are you up for a walk?”

  John raised his eyebrows. “Well, sure I am. What are you going to show me?”

  “It’s better as a surprise,” said Nicholas.

  “I should have known you’d say that.” John put his hands on his hips and took a last glance around. “We’d better close the roof before we go, in case it rains again. And listen, Nick, what do you say we get this place cleaned up tomorrow night?”

  Nicholas looked at him askance. “Really?”

  “You bet! Don’t you want to be able to lie on your back and gaze up at the sky? Without lying in a puddle, I mean? We need to sneak a mop and broom up here.” He gave Nicholas a sly look. “I don’t suppose you could conjure them, could you?”

  “Of course,” Nicholas said, then pretended to stifle a yawn. “It’s hard work conjuring, though. You’ll probably have to do most of the cleaning.”

  Together the boys hiked across the clearing, following the steep trail down into the wooded ravine. The streambed that had been dry the night before was dry no longer—the afternoon thunderstorm had done its own conjuring—but the boys soon found a fallen tree that formed a bridge over the gushing waters.

  “Better let me carry the lantern,” John said. “I used to do this a lot. There was a big stream in the woods behind our house.” Sure enough, he crossed the tree bridge with the natural-looking ease born of experience.

  Nicholas, for his part, crawled across on his hands and feet, like an awkward bear cub. He kept expecting John to tease him, but John stood there quietly, holding the lantern out to light the way. The only sound was the rushing of the water. When at last he had made it safely across, one glance told Nicholas that John’s mind had drifted elsewhere—that he was remembering other woods, other tree bridges over other tumbling streams. He’d been about to make a joke, but he kept it to himself.

  In silence they climbed the steep trail, up and up to the wooded ridge high above them, where they paused to recover their breath. Then John followed Nicholas down again, turning right at the fork in the trail. Nicholas led the way until the trail made its sharp turn around the huge boulder. There he stopped and turned to John. “Just ahead lies the surprise,” he said. “Why don’t you walk beside me? It’s a bit treacherous, so watch your step.”

  “You’re making me nervous,” said John, catching up. “I can’t decide if you’re about to give me a pony or lead me into a trap.”

  “Maybe it’s both,” Nicholas said, grinning impishly. He watched John’s face as they rounded the boulder, anticipating his surprised reaction with amusement, and in the next instant was rewarded with an expression of complete startlement and wonder. John even gasped and drew back, which seemed rather dramatic for a boy of his poise. Nicholas assumed John was playing up the surprise for his sake.

  But then John said under his breath, “What’s going on, Nick? Who is this?”

  Now it was Nicholas’s turn to be shocked. For when he shifted his gaze away from John’s face, he discovered a figure standing on the bluff exactly where he had stood the night before, looking out over the valley. An older girl, or perhaps a young woman, she stood with her hands hanging at her sides, seemingly unaware of the boys’ presence. Her long dark hair was drawn back and hung almost to the waist of her plain, ankle-length dress. She stood utterly still.

  Heart racing, Nicholas impulsively advanced a couple of steps, holding the lantern before him and intending to speak. Then he checked himself, warned by a terrible premonition. The girl, evidently lost in thought, stood dangerously close to the edge. What if his approach frightened her and she recoiled? He dared not risk it. With a horrible feeling of anxiety, Nicholas began to creep back.

  But just then the girl finally seemed to sense she was not alone. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, and then—spying Nicholas—whirled all the way around to face him, her eyes wide with panic. She unconsciously took a step backward.

  “No!” Nicholas cried, willing her to be still, to see him for what he was—not a danger, not a threat, just a boy with a lantern—and to his relief she froze in place and did not fall, though she appeared very much alarmed.

  She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, with a long, narrow face and pointy chin. Her eyes, very round at the moment, seemed almost too wide for her face. She had put her hands to her cheeks, her fingers fluttering anxiously. Some of them appeared to have black tips, as though she’d been dipping them in inkpots. Her breaths were coming short and quick.

  “It�
�s all right,” Nicholas said, extending his empty hand toward her in a calming gesture. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to scare you.”

  From behind him John said in a low voice, “You don’t know this person, Nick?”

  “I didn’t conjure her, if that’s what you mean,” Nicholas muttered, and the girl jerked her head to the side, trying to see who was with him. He smiled encouragingly at her and glanced down at her feet. She was wearing muddy work boots. To his dismay, he saw that the heel of her right boot was mere inches from the edge of the bluff.

  “We need to back away,” John murmured, then called out, “Don’t worry, miss! We’re just a couple of boys, and unless you need help we’ll go now and leave you in peace. If you need help, say so, and we’ll do whatever we can. Otherwise we’re leaving straightaway. Just—you’re very close to the edge, miss, so please be careful.”

  John’s tone had been soothing, friendly, and above all convincing. Even so, as he’d spoken, the girl had peered intently in his direction with a look of growing suspicion. It was possible she couldn’t make out his features in the darkness, Nicholas realized; he was holding the lantern in front of him, and John was behind him. Perhaps she was wondering if they really were just a couple of boys and not scouts for a traveling gang of robbers, ready to take any valuable thing she possessed and finish the job with a push over the edge.

  “He’s telling the truth,” Nicholas said, and he backed slowly away until he stood beside John. “You don’t need help, do you?”

  The girl was watching him. She gave the slightest shake of her head. No.

  “All right,” Nicholas said, and together he and John began to withdraw. “That’s good. Um… good night, then. I’m Nicholas, by the way. Nicholas Benedict, from the orphanage. The Manor, you know—Rothschild’s End.”

  “Nick!” John whispered. “Are you crazy?”

  But Nicholas pressed on. “If you tell on me, I’ll be in a world of trouble, and you can be sure I’ll never be able to sneak out again. My fate is in your hands, Miss Hopefield. You are Miss Hopefield, aren’t you?”

  The girl’s expression changed to bafflement. She made no reply, however, and the boys kept backing away until they were out of sight behind the boulder. Then they turned and hurried up the trail, retracing their steps to the fork and then up to the ridge. Before they had gotten far, they could hear the girl running down the trail below them, hurrying away. Perhaps she was afraid they were trying to deceive her.

  “What were you thinking, Nick?” John asked. “Just like that, it’s all over! You were right—no way will you be able to sneak out after this, not after she tells on you. And you’ll be working double duties for a month!”

  “She would have guessed where we came from anyway,” Nicholas said. “Where else would we have been from if not the orphanage? I’m sure she knows everyone on the neighboring farms, and the Manor is the only other place for miles.”

  “I suppose, but why tell her your name?” John persisted. “I guess I should be grateful that you didn’t mention mine. And say, how in the world did you know hers?”

  “All shall be revealed in good time,” Nicholas said. He gave John a lopsided grin. “For now you’ll just have to trust me.”

  John shook his head. “I don’t suppose there’s much else I can do, is there? You and your mysterious ways! Will you at least promise not to rat on me when the time comes?”

  “I promise,” Nicholas said. “But you already know I wouldn’t.”

  John looked at him, then shrugged. “You’re right. I know you wouldn’t. Now let’s get back,” he said wearily. “I’m exhausted. I think I used up all my strength praying for her not to fall over the edge. For a second I thought she was gone for sure. Can you imagine? It would have been the worst thing, the very worst.”

  As the boys made their way back, they spoke little, each deep in his own thoughts. Nicholas, for his part, was hoping that his instinct had been correct. They had scared the girl badly, had made her feel trapped in that dangerous spot, and he had instantly felt that he should give her something to make up for it. And so he had let her have some power over him, hoping that by doing so he would make her understand—later, anyway, when she was safe at home and had calmed down—that he was friendly, that he could be trusted.

  He doubted she would have told anyone about him, regardless. That would require her to explain why she was up on that bluff in the middle of the night. Nicholas didn’t think she would care to do that, for she had almost certainly sneaked out herself. She had another, more important reason not to tell on him, too: If she told on him, she would never see him again. He was only a boy, a scrawny one at that, and he was much younger. But he was also a potential friend, and Nicholas had a feeling that this girl who went to stand on bluffs alone at night—well, he had a feeling that she could use one.

  The Old Hag was in mid-cackle, and Nicholas was cowering, pleading with her not to hurt him, when her laughter turned abruptly into a sort of metallic scraping—or no, it was rather a jingling sound, as if she were coughing up sleigh bells. And then she faded from the room—first her legs, then her torso, then her hideous head—as if scrubbed out of existence by an invisible eraser. Nicholas sat up, drenched in sweat, as the door to his room opened and Mr. Griese entered with a smoky oil lamp and a ring of keys.

  “Good morning, Nicholas,” croaked Mr. Griese, evidently having just awakened himself. “Or almost morning, anyway. You’re on larder duty today, so you need to wash up quick and hop off to the farm.”

  Nicholas squinted in the lamplight, trying to collect himself. No matter how many times the horrors visited him in his sleep, they never grew less frightening. Was he truly awake even now, he wondered, or was Mr. Griese going to sprout spider legs and fangs? No, he was awake; he felt sure of it now. That scraping and jingling had been the cook’s keys at the keyhole. The Old Hag was gone. The night had passed.

  “Why, you’re pale as a turnip root,” said Mr. Griese, drawing nearer with the lamp, “and your covers are soaked through. Are you ill?”

  “Oh, I’m perfectly well, sir, thank you for asking,” Nicholas said, and he flung off his covers and sprang up with such energy that the cook drew back, startled. “Only a little hot, but the cold water always takes quick care of that! Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a moment. No, don’t trouble with the lamp; I can find my way easily enough.”

  Mr. Griese shrugged and sank onto the cot as Nicholas hurried off to the bathroom. The icy-cold water from the faucet did work wonders. It was painful, but the relief of coming fully awake—of shaking off the last awful vestige of his night—made the pain more than worth it. By the time he had changed out of his pajamas, he was whistling happily, his mind taken up with mysteries and treasure.

  When Nicholas returned to his room, Mr. Griese was snoring and had to be awakened, though he grumpily insisted that he had only been resting his eyes. They went down to the kitchen. As Mr. Griese lit the stove, Nicholas gathered up the egg baskets and empty milk jars, which he fitted inside the baskets. He wondered about the Hopefield girl. Was she, too, rising early to do farm chores? Then he thought of John, wondering if it had been difficult to sneak back into the dormitory. If Mr. Griese had been snoring as loudly and steadily as he had been just now, probably not.

  A troubling thought suddenly occurred to Nicholas. “Who’s the chaperone in the dormitory, Mr. Griese? I suppose it must be Mr. Pileus, since Mr. Collum is out of town?”

  Mr. Griese gave him a bleary, sidelong look. “It was me, that’s who, and I’m only too happy to be up again. I don’t sleep well on a cot. It’s a horror on my back.”

  “But surely the boys aren’t left unsupervised until breakfast?”

  “Surely they are,” Mr. Griese retorted. “Sometimes there just isn’t enough staff to go around, Nicholas, and you boys must take care of yourselves. Now off you go. I need my eggs and milk, and snappy, too.”

  Nicholas left the Manor by the back door, whereupon he imm
ediately set down the baskets and dashed all the way around the building to the porch. It was a long way to dash, and he was panting when he slipped back in through the front door. He made his way, stealthily and quickly, down the east passage to the boys’ dormitory.

  A modest hall with high ceilings and a single arched window, the dormitory had once served as an extra parlor. Now it was crammed with rows of cots, its walls lined with small wooden lockers. Mr. Griese had left a candle burning in a wall sconce, and by its flickering light Nicholas stole into the room looking for John. He spotted him almost at once. His cot was very near the door.

  Nicholas tiptoed over and touched John’s shoulder. John opened his eyes with a faraway, dreamy look, but the look rapidly changed to one of bitter disappointment. He’d been dreaming, Nicholas realized, and it was plain that John’s dreams were nothing like his own. John’s dreams were heartbreaking to leave behind.

  “Mr. Griese is in the kitchen,” Nicholas whispered. “There’s no chaperone in here.”

  John looked blank for a moment. Then the significance of Nicholas’s words settled slowly in his groggy mind, and he sat up. From the direction of his gaze, Nicholas deduced where the Spiders’ cots were situated in the next row. The indistinct forms lying on them had not stirred.

  “I’m off to the farm. Will you be all right?”

  John nodded. “I’ll be fine, Nick,” he whispered. “Thanks for the warning.”

  By the time Nicholas had crept out of the dormitory John was already getting dressed.

  Though the sky had now begun to lighten, the path through the trees to the farm was still dark. Nicholas fumbled along as best he could, twice almost dropping the baskets when he stumbled over tree roots. He went to the door of the little farmhouse and knocked.

  Mr. Furrow came to the door wearing red long johns and tall brown boots. He peered out through the crack at Nicholas, his eyes half open, an unlit cigar stub in his mouth. Nicholas wondered if he slept that way; if so, it was a miracle he didn’t choke. Mr. Furrow cleared his throat. “Early, aren’t you? Barney ain’t even crowed yet, I’m sure.”