The Mysterious Benedict Society

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  Suddenly Reynie understood. Because S.Q. had glimpsed the note, Milligan had chosen to be caught. He’d wanted a chance to confess, a chance to make up a story about that piece of paper. A note would have suggested someone else had written it — another spy on the island — but a page from a private journal pointed only to Milligan himself. Yes, he had wanted to convince Mr. Curtain he was working alone, had wanted to take suspicion off the children. He had sacrificed himself for them.

  As Milligan passed through the cafeteria, the whole place erupted in applause for the Executives and Recruiters, then horrible boos and jeers for the captured spy. The miserable man was led past their table — right past the grateful and heartbroken children he’d saved — but never did he look up or reveal any awareness of them.

  “Boy, doesn’t he look glum?” Jillson said.

  Kate started to speak, but a catch in her voice made her words incomprehensible. She was thinking exactly what her friends were thinking. Milligan had said he would die before he let any harm come to them.

  Sticky’s Discovery

  M captured. Must face Whisperer tomorrow. Please advise.

  “Still no response,” Sticky reported from the window.

  The others waited in depressed silence. Although the “stomach virus” had spread like wildfire (already the bathrooms and the Best of Health Center were crowded with students), the success of their scheme had done nothing to boost their spirits. Not even the sight of Jillson hurrying down a corridor with her hand over her mouth, clutching a paper bag in case she didn’t reach the bathroom in time — not even this managed to cheer them. Time was slipping away, and they’d been forced to abandon the hope that they’d nurtured in the backs of their minds: the hope that if things went terribly wrong, Milligan would be there to save them somehow.

  After another interminable minute had passed, Kate said, “I’m sick of waiting. I say forget the plan and let’s try to rescue Milligan instead.”

  Sticky was taken aback. “But he’s under heavy guard — we wouldn’t stand a chance!”

  “We don’t stand a chance either way, do we?” said Kate.

  “That isn’t like you, Kate,” said Reynie, surprised. “I think the broadcasts are getting to you.”

  Kate frowned. “You’re . . . you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, here comes a response,” Sticky said. “What in the world? Can that really be it?” He began signaling with the flashlight again.

  “For crying out loud, what are you doing, George Washington?” demanded Constance. (Though the others wouldn’t have thought it possible, Constance grew steadily crankier as the Improvement drew closer.) “Did they send a message or not?”

  “I’m asking them to repeat it.” But when the message was repeated, Sticky was left scratching his head. “It’s just an old saying: Laughter is the best medicine.”

  “Are they joking?” Kate said.

  “Maybe it’s their way of saying for us to cheer up, to have hope,” Sticky said.

  Reynie didn’t think so. “That’s too lighthearted. They wouldn’t expect us to feel like that, not with Milligan taken prisoner. It’s a riddle of some kind — important advice. We just have to figure out what it means.”

  “For once I’d like a straight answer,” Constance grumbled. “It’s ridiculous that they do it this way — it isn’t right!”

  “They have to be careful, don’t they?” Sticky said. “If they gave us a straight answer and someone else saw it, we’d be in even worse shape.”

  “How much worse shape could we possibly be in? I’m tired of being careful. And I’m tired of their dumb codes, and I’m tired of you all treating me like a stupid baby.”

  “Easy now, Constance,” Reynie said, as calmly as he could. “We’re all frustrated and upset, and I know you’re scared —”

  “Shut up,” Constance snarled. “I’m sick of you, too! Who made you king, anyway?”

  “Why don’t you shut up?” Reynie snapped.

  With that — the first time Reynie had ever spoken so sharply to her — Constance lapsed into furious silence. The others, disgruntled, turned their energy toward solving the riddle. But Sticky and Kate were not the best puzzle-solvers, and Reynie was lost in his mental fogbank. (And the Whisperer, high up in its tower, kept shimmering like a lighthouse beacon through that fog.)

  After half an hour of useless guessing, the children had come no closer to an answer, and Constance abandoned her silence in order to mock their efforts. Reynie put his head in his hands. “Okay, Constance, I give up. Is that what you want? None of us can concentrate while you’re being this way. I say we adjourn and get a few hours of sleep. Maybe a little rest will help.”

  Constance, who felt very desperate indeed, could not control herself. “Rest?” she sneered. “I thought what we needed was laughter. Isn’t that what stupid old Benedict said? Well, hardy har har, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re hopeless,” said Kate, who’d been in an awful mood to begin with and now had lost all patience. “Reynie’s right. Let’s go back to our room.” She scurried up her rope into the ceiling, and as she hauled Constance after her she whispered down: “We’ll be back before dawn. Or I will, at least. If she’s still acting like this, she can rot in our room, for all I care.”

  The gap in the ceiling closed.

  Reynie and Sticky looked at each other. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and neither boy could hide his worry. It was written plainly on both their faces.

  “If you think of anything at all . . . ,” Reynie said.

  Sticky nodded. “I’ll wake you up. You do the same.”

  Fully dressed and fully miserable, the boys climbed into their beds, still going over the message again and again in their heads. Laughter is the best medicine, laughter is the best medicine. . . . By midnight, neither had come up with anything. By one o’clock, Sticky was whimpering himself to sleep. By two o’clock, Reynie was abandoning his last letter to Miss Perumal, starting over, then abandoning the new one as well — too anxious even to think about being anxious. His mind returned to Mr. Benedict’s message.

  “Why laughter?” he wondered for the hundredth time. “Why medicine? It’s something . . . something that cures an illness or . . . or solves a problem, maybe, but what problem?”

  But the answer remained maddeningly elusive. Reynie decided he would have to stay awake. There was no way he could sleep, anyway, not until he had figured out the message. Having made this decision, he sighed, rolled over to get comfortable . . . and fell asleep.

  Some time before dawn Reynie awoke with a start. His mind had been working furiously as he slept. He swung down off his bunk and shook Sticky. Sticky opened one eye, then closed it to open the other, as if too afraid now to look at the world with both at once.

  “Wha —?”

  “Sticky, wake up.”

  This time Sticky blinked both eyes. “Hmm? What time is —?” He sniffed and rubbed his head, coming slightly more awake. “Oh, has something happened?”

  “I have an idea about what Mr. Benedict meant,” Reynie said excitedly. “I just don’t think it’s quite right yet. I think maybe it’s half right. Let me tell you about it, and then you tell me what you think.”

  Sticky sat up, fully awake now. “I’m all ears.”

  But no sooner had Reynie begun than a knock sounded on their door, and S.Q. Pedalian, not waiting for a response, poked his head into their room. “What, already up? Good boys! You must have guessed all the other Messengers are down for the count, and Mr. Curtain needs you again right away. He’s had to cancel half his night sessions thanks to this stomach bug. Good thing you two are already over it, eh? Can you imagine anything worse than not being able to go when Mr. Curtain summons you?”

  The moment had arrived too soon! No one had expected such an early morning session. Snatching a pen from his desk, Reynie scribbled something on the palm of his hand.

  “What are you doing?” S.Q. said
.

  “Just writing down something I don’t want to forget.”

  “I do that sometimes,” S.Q. reflected, “only I usually forget I wrote something on my hand, and I wash it off before I remember. What are you writing?”

  “Remind me to tell you later,” Reynie said.

  “Right — now hurry and get dressed. Don’t want to keep Mr. Curtain waiting.”

  The boys threw on their clothes and followed S.Q. out the door. In the corridor a few weak-kneed, pasty-faced students were making their way to and from the bathrooms, and a group of silent Helpers worked double-duty to keep the floors mopped. S.Q., cheerful now that he’d made up for his earlier blunder, smiled and patted the miserable students as he passed. “Hang in there! Chins up! Look on the bright side — it could always be worse!”

  The trip to the Whispering Gallery didn’t seem nearly long enough. The blindfolding, the walk to the secret entrance, the exhausting climb up countless steps — all of it seemed to pass in one excruciating instant. Then S.Q. was removing their blindfolds and pressing the intercom button. “Reynard Muldoon and Stic . . . er, George Washington here for their sessions, Mr. Curtain!”

  Mr. Curtain’s voice came through a speaker: “They must wait. Meanwhile, bring me more juice.”

  In his most authoritative tone (which was not very authoritative), S.Q. ordered the boys not to stir from that spot. After they assured him that such a thing would never have occurred to them, he hastened back down the steps.

  “Let’s run!” Sticky whispered.

  “No, listen, we still have a chance,” said Reynie. “You have to go first, Sticky, and make your session last as long as you can. If you resist the Whisperer at the very beginning, while you still have strength, you might be able to stretch out the session —”

  Sticky’s jaw dropped. “Resist it? But Mr. Curtain will suspect something! He’ll notice it, you know he will. He’ll send me back to the Waiting Room! He’ll —” Sticky began to shake all over. “He’ll turn the Whisperer on me! I’ll be brainswept!”

  “I know the risks,” Reynie said. “But this is our only shot.”

  Sticky’s horrified expression shifted into one of anger. “Why don’t you go first, then? Why don’t you be the one to resist it, if you’re so brave?”

  “I need to try to signal the girls,” Reynie said. He grabbed Sticky’s arm. “We can still do this, Sticky!”

  Sticky looked doubtful, even suspicious. “How do you propose to signal the girls? How —?”

  The Whispering Gallery door slid open and Martina Crowe came out, her expression pleasantly befuzzed. She was so content she almost didn’t bother to sneer at them. Almost. But then she stopped and made an effort.

  Reynie returned the sneer with his best fake smile. “Did you just have a session with the Whisperer? I thought you were an Executive now.”

  “I’m such a young Executive, I can still do Messenger work in a pinch,” Martina boasted. “And this is definitely a pinch. I’ve never seen so many upchucking kids in my life.”

  “You haven’t gotten sick?”

  “Sick of being hungry, is all. I was so busy capturing that spy last night, I missed supper. That’s the price you pay for being an Executive, doing the important work. Not that you boys would know anything about that.” With an immensely self-satisfied and condescending expression, Martina walked on, saying over her shoulder, “Hurry on in, boys. I’m off to another duty. You’ll notice I don’t have to wear a blindfold, either.”

  The moment she was out of earshot Reynie whispered, “You have to trust me on this, Sticky. To give us a chance, you have to go first. It’s our only hope.”

  Sticky’s face was a mask of doubt.

  “Boys, get in here!” Mr. Curtain called.

  Reynie tried to make one last plea to his friend, but Sticky turned and plunged into the Whispering Gallery without looking back.

  Reynie had no choice but to follow. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the Whispering Gallery . . . where his breath escaped like air from a balloon. There it was! The Whisperer! Reynie’s eyelids fluttered. Stepping into its presence was like stepping into a warm bath. He wanted to take his seat in it and never climb out.

  You have to fight, Reynie told himself, and with great effort he tore his eyes from the seductive machine to look at Mr. Curtain.

  Mr. Curtain seemed tired but eager. “Welcome, boys. I trust you are fully recovered? You have your strength up?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys said together.

  “I hope so! Only a tiny handful of Messengers have recovered, and I’ve worn them all out. You saw I resorted to using an Executive — a rare thing, as older children are so much less effective. But I’ve been put off my schedule and am raging against the delay. If only this infernal stomach sickness hadn’t emerged, my project would already be complete!”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” said Reynie.

  “No matter, my young friend. The problem will soon be rectified, for I intend to finish right now!”

  Reynie sucked in his breath.

  “You mean . . . you mean . . . ,” Sticky stammered.

  “I see you’re quite tongue-tied by the honor. That’s right, George, you boys shall personally preside over the completion of my project. If all goes well, that is.”

  The boys forced weak smiles.

  Mr. Curtain clapped his hands together. “Now, here is our task. First we shall have a last session devoted to old material — the last of the lessons. Then we shall have a session of entirely new material. Material hot off the presses!” Mr. Curtain waved his journal triumphantly. “I’ve just completed it.”

  Reynie tried to stall. “Shouldn’t we take time to study it, sir?”

  “No, Reynard, in this case simplicity is essential. My Whisperer is designed to soothe troubled minds, and nothing soothes the mind more effectively than a simple answer to a complicated problem.”

  “Mr. Curtain, sir?” Sticky asked. “Do you still plan to close the Institute?”

  At this unexpected question, Reynie glanced sharply at Sticky. Was he stalling, too, or was it the opposite — had Sticky already given up?

  Mr. Curtain chuckled. “Don’t worry, George, I haven’t forgotten you. The other students will be sent home tomorrow — I have chosen to answer a higher calling and will be serving the public in a much grander capacity — but I have you boys in mind as personal assistants, to be groomed as Executives as you mature.”

  “You . . . you really do want us, then?” Sticky asked.

  “But of course I do,” Mr. Curtain said, with an encouraging smile. “I could use you both! And the sooner the Improvement begins, the sooner you’ll begin your new life. What better motivation to perform well, eh?”

  Sticky’s lip quivered.

  “I’m here with the juice, sir,” S.Q.’s voice called through the intercom speaker.

  “Finally,” Mr. Curtain grumbled, his smile instantly vanishing, as fake smiles often do. He pushed a button on the arm of his wheelchair.

  Reynie, who had been watching Sticky in bleak despair, noted which button Mr. Curtain pressed. If Kate and Constance managed to come, he could open the door. But what were the chances of that? First Sticky would need to resist Mr. Curtain’s invitation — and with the pull of the Whisperer so powerful, with Mr. Curtain now so likely to succeed, could Reynie hold out hope for this?

  S.Q. brought their juice and tripped out again; Mr. Curtain sipped from his paper cup with an expression of eager contemplation, and then the moment had arrived. “Very well, Reynard, let’s improve the world. You may take your seat in the Whisperer now.”

  Reynie stared pleadingly at Sticky, whose expression was impossible to read. What was going on in his head?

  As it happened, Sticky himself did not know.

  There had been times in Sticky’s life when an important question would flummox him no matter how well he knew the answer; and times he had run away from his problems; and times when he’d felt himself
paralyzed when action was most needed. He’d never understood this tendency of his — he knew only that he rarely lived up to expectation, and for this reason had clung so fiercely to his nickname. Any boy with a name like George Washington must surely have great things expected of him.

  And yet, in these last days, he’d become friends with people who cared about him, quite above and beyond what was expected of him. With perfect clarity he remembered Reynie saying, “I need you here as a friend.” The effect of those words, and of all his friendships, had grown stronger and stronger, until — though he couldn’t say why he didn’t feel mixed up now — at the most desperate moment yet, he knew it to be true. There was bravery in him. It only had to be drawn out.

  So it was that Sticky stepped in front of Reynie and said, “May I go first, Mr. Curtain? I’ve been looking forward to this ever since my last session.”

  Mr. Curtain laughed his screechy laugh. “I daresay Reynard feels much the same, George. But let’s not quibble. Reynard went first last time. You may go first this time. Take your seat.”

  At last Sticky met Reynie’s gaze, which was now full of gratitude and admiration. With a quick nod, Sticky turned and climbed into the Whisperer. Immediately Mr. Curtain whizzed over to sit behind him, fitted his head inside the red helmet, and barked, “Ledroptha Curtain!”

  The cuffs sprang up around Sticky’s wrists. The blue helmet lowered.

  “Sticky Washington,” Sticky said aloud, closing his eyes.

  Reynie watched his friend’s face grow tense with the effort of resisting. He knew the Whisperer wanted Sticky’s given name.

  “Sticky Washington,” Sticky repeated.

  “Hold on, Sticky,” thought Reynie, his eyes darting to Mr. Curtain’s face, which seemed both tired and troubled. Had Mr. Curtain already sensed a problem? He was frowning with concentration, his eyes closed.

  How long could Sticky hold on — knowing his resistance might betray him? Knowing all he must do to relieve his terror was cooperate? Knowing he was but moments away from that wonderful relief? It would be like trying not to scratch the most powerful itch anyone had ever known.