The Mysterious Benedict Society

As Rhonda rolled the window up and put the gear in forward again, all four children released deep breaths. Then they passed over the long bridge toward their fate.

After their suitcases had been unloaded from the station wagon, and Rhonda had signed a form and bidden them farewell, the children were left to wait in a loading area by the bridge gate. Their escorts would collect them shortly, the gate guards said. In the meantime they were to step aside, please, as this was a busy area and not the sort of place for children to be underfoot. Workers in white uniforms were hauling crates from a nearby storage shed and loading them into a big truck. And they did indeed seem very busy, tirelessly loading and stacking until it made your back hurt just to watch them.

The children moved off to the side of the loading area, dragging their suitcases behind them. (Rhonda had packed changes of clothes for each of them, including outfits she had sewn overnight to fit Constance’s diminutive size.) They hadn’t much to do or look at to occupy themselves, even though they very much wanted to be occupied to take their minds off their nervousness. There was only the guard house, the storage shed, and the loading area — all of which were apparently off limits — and a stone wall that blocked their view of the harbor. After twiddling their thumbs a few minutes, the children stacked their suitcases and took turns standing on them to peek over the wall. (Constance required all four suitcases; the others managed with two.)

They were interested to discover some activity beneath the bridge — more workers in white uniforms, navigating a boat among the pilings. The workers carried oversized wrenches, cranks, and other tools, and were using them to make adjustments on some unseen apparatus beneath the water’s surface. Like the workers loading the crates into the truck, those in the boats seemed earnestly intent upon their work. They spoke but rarely, and then in quiet tones, as if they held some great reverence for the task set before them.

Must be the turbines, Reynie thought, climbing down from the suitcases. Sticky and Kate had come to the same conclusion, but Constance wondered aloud what in the world those people could possibly be doing down there. Were they trying to fix the water?

Reynie wasn’t sure whether or not Constance was joking. He had started to answer, regardless, when his voice was drowned out by the rumbling of an engine. The workers had finished loading the big truck. Two men in suits had climbed into the front, and as the gate opened for them, they waved cheerfully to the children and drove away over the bridge.

“Did you see that?” Constance cried. “They’re wearing those shock-watches! The bridge guards, too. Have you noticed?”

“Lower your voice,” Kate hissed. “Are you crazy? Of course we’ve noticed.”

Constance was indignant, but there was no time for a full-blown argument to develop, for just then the children’s escorts arrived.

The escorts were dressed identically in blue pants, snappy white tunics, and blue sashes, but they could never be mistaken for each other. One was a stocky, red-haired young man with icy blue eyes and a nose so skinny and sharp it resembled a knife. The other was a powerfully built young woman with a greasy brown ponytail and small, piggish eyes of an indeterminate color. They introduced themselves as Jackson and Jillson.

Reynie extended his hand. “My name’s —”

“There’ll be time for that,” Jillson said, turning away. “Let’s get moving. We’ll take you to your rooms first so you can dump your luggage.”

Surprised, Reynie lowered his hand. He knew it was Jillson who had been rude (she and Jackson hadn’t offered to help with their suitcases, either), but he still felt foolish.

“She’s a nice one, isn’t she?” Kate whispered.

The children were led up a long gravel path toward the Institute buildings. They crossed the broad stone plaza, then a modest rock garden, then waited as Constance shook the gravel from her shoes. At last they were taken into the student dormitory, where, since the girls’ room lay at one end of a long stone corridor and the boys’ at the other, they were forced to separate.

Reynie and Sticky’s room, aside from being very clean and tidy, was rather what they would have expected: bunk beds, two desks and chairs (but no bookshelves), a wardrobe, a radiator, a large television cabinet (well, that was unexpected), and a window overlooking the plaza. Reynie went to the window. Beyond the plaza lay the glittering channel, brilliant in the sunlight and choppy with white-capped waves, and beyond that the wooded shore, where Mr. Benedict’s telescopes were going to be hidden. The children could send their Morse code messages from this very window. Reynie’s stomach fluttered. His mind might understand he was a secret agent now, but his body still had a hard time believing it.

Jackson leaned against the doorjamb. “If you need anything, ask an Executive. You can always tell an Executive by the uniform — blue pants, white tunic, blue sash. The Executives run the show here. A lot of us are former students who did so well as Messengers that Mr. Curtain hired us on. Don’t get us confused with Messengers, though. Messengers wear tunics and a sash, too, but their pants are striped. They’re just students like yourselves, only they’re top of the class and have special privileges. Secret privileges, I might add. Anyway, you’ll learn all about this soon enough. Right now just get yourselves unpacked, watch some TV if you want.” He switched the television on for them. “You’ll have your orientation tour in an hour. Then you’ll meet Mr. Curtain.”

“Who’s Mr. Curtain?” said Reynie, who thought it best to give the impression of knowing as little as possible. The less you knew, the less people suspected of you — and perhaps the more they told you.

Jackson sneered, then forced the sneer into a smile. He looked like a red-headed crocodile. “I keep forgetting how ignorant you kids are when you get here. Mr. Curtain’s my boss. He’s the founder of the Institute, the reason we’re all here. Got it?” It was clear Jackson was the sort of young man who considers himself rather smarter than he is, and who is naturally cruel but thinks himself a decent fellow. When the smaller boys didn’t answer him quickly enough, he snapped, “Do you understand me or don’t you? You speak English, right?”

The boys nodded.

“Good. I’ll see you in an hour.”

When Jackson had gone, Sticky switched off the television. “Did you hear that? Messengers. We know what that means, don’t we?”

“We’d better find the girls,” Reynie said.

“We’re right here,” said a muffled voice from above them. A ceiling panel slid aside, and Kate Wetherall’s head appeared through the gap. “There aren’t any support beams over your bunk bed, so one of you move that chair over, will you? I’m going to lower Constance down. What are you doing, anyway?”