The Mysterious Benedict Society (27 page)

“You have a question for me?” Mr. Benedict said, as Reynie sat down.

Reynie laughed. “How do you always know?”

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Benedict admitted. “Perhaps it’s a matter of empathy. I know that if I were you I’d have questions.” He scratched the top of his head with one of his pencils. “Though come to think of it, perhaps it’s a matter of odds. You seem the type always to have questions. Thus at any given moment, it’s a safe bet for me to assume you have one.”

“I was wondering if you ever wish you had a family,” Reynie sputtered. He hadn’t meant to speak so directly, but once he’d begun to ask it, the words just tumbled out.

Mr. Benedict nodded. “Certainly when I was your age I did. But not anymore.”

Reynie wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or depressed by this revelation. He’d been wondering how it would feel for him to grow up without relatives. “You… you grew out of it, then? You stopped wanting it?”

“Oh, no, Reynie, you don’t grow out of it. It’s just that once you acquire a family, you no longer need to wish for one.”

Reynie was caught off guard. “You
have
a family?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Benedict replied. “You must remember, family is often born of blood, but it doesn’t
depend
on blood. Nor is it exclusive of friendship. Family members can be your best friends, you know. And best friends, whether or not they are related to you, can be your family.”

Reynie had drunk up those words like life-saving medicine. Even though the next morning he would leave on a dangerous mission, even though he knew something terrible was coming down the pike, those words of Mr. Benedict’s had made all good things seem possible. Reynie had gone to bed thinking of the people he might one day — if everything turned out all right — consider a part of
his
family.

And now, lying in his dark room at the Institute in an altogether different mood, Reynie finished the letter he had begun to one of those very people.

At least I had you, Miss Perumal, if only for a while. Maybe you weren’t my family, but you were the closest thing I had — maybe that I’ll ever have. And now things are awful and seem likely to get worse, and I worry that I’ll never have the chance to tell you what it meant to me….

“Reynie?” whispered Sticky from the bunk below.

Reynie cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“Were you having a bad dream? It sounded like you were crying.”

Reynie wiped his eyes. “I just… just can’t get over what he’s done to those poor people.”

“I know,” Sticky said. “It’s maddening to think what might be in that journal of his — to think there might be something we could use to stop him… but I know there’s no way we can lay hands on it.”

Reynie sat bolt upright. “Sticky!”

Sticky nearly fell out of bed. “What? What is it?”

“Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” Reynie said. “Maybe we don’t
have
to lay hands on it!”

T
he last class was dismissed into a perfect fall afternoon. Blue skies, cool temperatures, the subtlest of breezes. The sun seemed to rest upon a distant hilltop like a giant orange on a giant table.

On the plaza, Mr. Curtain sat in his favorite spot, gazing off toward the bridge, reading a newspaper with a look of satisfaction, occasionally making a note in his journal. A few students had gathered at the edges of the plaza and in the rock garden, passing the time before supper. As always, they gave Mr. Curtain plenty of room. No one dared go near him while he was working — which is why so many jaws dropped when Reynard Muldoon was spotted walking toward him. Did the new kid not know any better? Was he just dying for a visit to the Waiting Room? No student had ever approached Mr. Curtain on the plaza before.

Reynie guessed this, which is why his breath came so short. But keeping his shoulders squared and one hand behind his back, he did what no other student dared to do. He approached from the front, knowing he would have only one shot at this; his plan would be spoiled if Mr. Curtain turned his chair. “Mr. Curtain, sir?”

Mr. Curtain glanced up, his lenses gleaming like polished chrome in the sun.

“Sorry to bother you,” Reynie said quickly. “But I couldn’t help noticing that your book has a lot of dog-eared pages. I must say I was surprised.”

Mr. Curtain seemed unsure whether to be angry or incredulous. “You’re surprised I have pages to which I often refer?”

“Oh, no, sir! I’m surprised nobody has ever given you a suitable present.” Reynie showed Mr. Curtain what he’d been holding behind his back — a fistful of thin blue ribbons. “Book markers! I thought they should be special, so I asked a laundry Helper for some sash material — I’m sure you recognize that shade of blue — which she cut into ribbons and sewed up nicely along the edges.” Reynie held out the ribbons, which were indeed elegantly stitched. “I hope you like them.”

Mr. Curtain was taken aback. He was flattered, it was true, yet his expression clearly showed that he agreed with Reynie, that he rather thought someone
should
have given him such a present before now. It was a proper attention that had been lacking. “Thank you, Reynard,” he said with a tight nod. “An appropriate gift indeed, from one young scholar to his superior. I shall put them to good use.” Mr. Curtain returned to his newspaper.

“Sir?” Reynie said. “Aren’t you going to put them in?”

Mr. Curtain grunted impatiently, his expression darkening. The boy was a nuisance. And yet the nuisance
had
flattered him, and the ribbons
would
be useful. His expression softened a little. Finally he sighed and set aside his newspaper. Flipping his journal back to the first dog-eared page, he slipped a ribbon inside. He was beginning to turn the page when Reynie said, “What exactly
is
that book, sir?”

Mr. Curtain paused. “It’s a journal, Reynard. Every great thinker keeps a journal, you know.” He returned to his book-marking.

“I must say, it’s an awfully big journal.”

“What better place to record ‘awfully big’ ideas, eh?” said Mr. Curtain, which was just what Reynie had thought he would say. “Now, Reynard, no more interruptions. I have a great deal of work to do.” Mr. Curtain flipped to the next dog-eared page.

“Sir? One last question?”

“A
very
last question, Reynard,” Mr. Curtain said, looking up. “Go ahead.”

“Why are you always gazing off toward the bridge?”

“Ah, I suppose it does appear that I’m looking at the bridge,” Mr. Curtain said with a smile. “In fact I’m gazing fondly toward one of my greatest accomplishments — the tidal turbines. I trust you know about the turbines?” Reynie nodded. “I thought so; they’re quite famous. They are an extraordinary invention, you see, and part of the great tradition.”

“The tradition, sir?”

“Do you not recall my mentioning my homeland’s admirable tradition? I was referring to the great conquest — the conquest of the sea. Holland claimed much of its land from the sea, you know. Dikes and polders, my boy! Nothing in the world less controllable than the sea, and yet the Dutch found a way to control it. And now, in my own way, I have done the very same thing. My turbines capture the ocean’s infinite energy, which I use for my own purposes. Is it not remarkable?”

“It’s the most remarkable thing I’ve ever heard,” Reynie said, equally impressed by Mr. Curtain’s remarkable vanity.

“No doubt,” said Mr. Curtain. He clapped his hands together. “But enough delay. Even greater things lie ahead, Reynard, much greater things, and we must waste no time achieving them.” He began paging through the rest of his journal, inserting the ribbons.

Mr. Curtain was turning the pages with disheartening speed, but Reynie dared not interrupt again. Instead he allowed himself one glance — and a brief one, at that — behind Mr. Curtain, toward the hill path leading up beyond the dormitory. A short distance from the bottom, the path curved around a large potted cactus. Nothing unusual about this — there were many such cactuses set along the Institute paths — but this particular cactus seemed to have several
arms
. A cactupus, Reynie thought with an inward smile.

“There,” said Mr. Curtain, holding up the journal, with the ends of ribbons sticking out here and there. “Satisfied?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Reynie, though in truth he was disappointed. He could see many dog-eared pages remaining. (He would have liked to bring more ribbons, but the timid Helper had given him all the sash material she could spare. She’d been afraid to disappoint him but terrified to give him more.)

“You’re quite welcome,” Mr. Curtain replied, as if it were Reynie who’d been given the present and not himself. “And now you may leave.”

This time Reynie needed no urging. He hurried off the plaza and across the rock garden, where several students gaped at him, surprised to see him still alive. He even seemed to be
happy
. Then Reynie reached the path and hurried uphill toward the cactupus.

Constance stood high above on the hilltop, keeping a lookout — actually doing what she’d been asked to do, which was promising. Behind the cactus, Kate was on her hands and knees, and Sticky stood precariously on her back. He was peering through Kate’s spyglass, which he had steadied atop a high cactus branch.

“Did he get anything?” Reynie whispered to Kate, so as not to disturb Sticky.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Sticky said. “I did get a little, and I’ll get more if he’ll just write anything. He’s on a fresh page, but now he’s gazing away again.”

“Only a little?” Reynie said.

“He was turning the pages pretty fast….”

“Sorry, I tried to stall him as best I could.”

“And I could only see a small part of each page,” Sticky said. He glanced down at Reynie with an impish smile. “But I do remember what I saw.”

“Is it any good?” Reynie asked.

“Beats me. I haven’t had time to think about it. There’s a difference between remembering and thinking, at least for me.” He returned to the spyglass. “Could you see us at all?”

“Kate’s forearms and your elbows, but you’re pretty well hidden,” Reynie said. “Anyway, from below it’s impossible to see what you’re doing.”

“What about from above?” Sticky asked. “Are we still clear in that direction?”

Reynie turned to check on Constance. It was good that he did. Constance was hurrying down the path toward them. For Constance, though, “hurrying” meant running a few steps and tripping, running a few steps more and stumbling….

And walking about twenty yards behind her was Jackson.

“Jackson’s coming!” Reynie hissed.

He was immediately knocked to the ground. Sticky, in his fright, had fallen off Kate’s back and crashed onto Reynie. The spyglass flew out of Sticky’s hand and onto the gravel path… and before the boys could gather themselves, Jackson had brushed past Constance — knocking her roughly to her knees — and was upon them. “What’s going on here?”

“We were… trying to make a human pyramid,” Reynie said.

“A human pyramid? With three kids?” Jackson said with a sneer. “That’s pathetic. And what’s this?” He had seen the spyglass and was bending to pick it up.

Kate sprang forward and snatched it away. “It’s mine, that’s what it is!”

Jackson stared at Kate, amazed a student had spoken to him that way. Then his amazement gave way to anger. “You’ll show it to me
here
,” he said in a threatening voice, “or else in the Waiting Room. It’s your choice, Wetherall.”

Kate stared back at him, defiant. The others held their breath.

“Fine,” Jackson said with a smile. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Let me just tell you how this works. I’m about to grab your arm — and I intend to squeeze so hard it hurts — and escort you to the Waiting Room. If you try to run away or fight me, I’ll personally see to it that you get kicked out of the Institute…
after
you go to the Waiting Room. How does that sound?”

Kate had no choice. Reluctantly she held out the spyglass. As Jackson snatched it from her grasp, Sticky turned away, his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look.

Jackson burst into laughter. “A kaleidoscope? You risked going to the Waiting Room for a
kaleidoscope
?” He put his eye to the lens.

“Yes, but it’s
my
kaleidoscope,” Kate said.

“Well, you can keep it,” Jackson said in disgust. He handed Kate her spyglass back. “This is the sorriest kaleidoscope I’ve ever seen.”

Reynie grimaced his way through studytime, trying to ignore a broadcast that went on for two hours. After it ended, Reynie noticed Sticky was still grimacing. Sticky had spent all of studytime reproducing what he’d seen in Mr. Curtain’s journal and was still at his desk. “What’s the matter?” Reynie asked him. “Forget something?”

Sticky groaned. “Forgetting isn’t the problem. Art is the problem.” He threw down his pencil. “There was a diagram in there, but I can’t draw worth a flip. Words and numbers, yes. Pictures? Hopeless.”

“You can always try again,” Reynie said, looking over Sticky’s shoulder at the drawing. It seemed to depict a mound of spaghetti with numbered meatballs. “We have a minute before lights out. It’ll be easier if you don’t have to use the flashlight.”

“Flashlight or floodlight, it won’t matter. I’d do just as well in the dark. This was my fourth try. It was supposed to be a diagram of Mr. Curtain’s brain, with lots of numbers on every region.”

Reynie stared doubtfully at the picture. “Are you sure it was Mr. Curtain’s brain?”

“It said ‘MY BRAIN’ at the top of the page.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t suppose there was a key to those numbers, was there? Or an explanation of the diagram?”

Sticky shook his head. “Not on that page.”

Reynie patted him on the back. “Then don’t worry about it. We don’t need a diagram to know what a brain looks like.”

Sticky’s face shone with relief. “Really? Oh, I hoped you would say that!” He tore the page into tiny bits. Reynie helped him shred the other attempted drawings, too, most of which resembled misshapen balls of yarn with numbered threads. They finished just as the girls made their appearance in the ceiling.