The Mysterious Benedict Society

Reynard Muldoon, what do you fear most?

Spiders, Reynie lied, trying to regain some control. Spiders made Reynie nervous, but he wasn’t afraid of them. Certainly they were not what he feared most. That was something he didn’t want the Whisperer to know.

But responding to Reynie’s involuntary answer, the Whisperer said, Don’t worry, you are not alone.

At once Reynie was filled with an astonishing sense of well-being. He felt so good, so at peace, he could hardly hold his thoughts together. So this was why those other Messengers looked so happy, why they craved their sessions so intensely! When you did what it wanted, the Whisperer rewarded you by soothing your fears. Reynie would never have guessed it could feel so wonderful.

Reynie had another problem now. A very troubling problem. Having been made to feel so wonderful — and so easily, so unexpectedly — Reynie found he wanted to give in to the Whisperer. Wanted it desperately. This was a disturbing development, and while he still had some trace of determination left — before he lost himself entirely — Reynie decided he must learn something if he could.

Mr. Curtain? he thought. Can you hear me?

Let us begin, said the Whisperer.

Mr. Curtain, can you hear my thoughts?

Let us begin.

Mr. Curtain didn’t seem to be hearing him. So maybe the Whisperer could only seek out certain things and was incapable of detecting anything else. Reynie had to hope so.

Let us begin, the Whisperer repeated with an unmistakable hint of impatience.

He could not put it off any longer.

Okay, Reynie thought, bracing himself. Okay, I’m ready.

When Reynie opened his eyes again, Sticky stood over him, staring at him as if he might be dead. Reynie blinked and stretched. (He saw relief in Sticky’s eyes.) He was fatigued, but pleasantly so, as if he had worked hard at some extremely enjoyable task. The cuffs had retracted into the armrest, the blue helmet had been lifted from his head, and Mr. Curtain was at his desk, making a note in his journal and speaking quietly into his unseen intercom.

“Are you okay?” Sticky whispered. “You were in that thing for two hours.”

“Two hours!” Reynie repeated, amazed. It had seemed like only a few minutes. He remembered the first stream of words entering his mind, remembered dutifully repeating them, his mind relaxing into a feeling of marvelous happiness. There was nothing at all to fear, nothing at all to worry about. In fact, now that Reynie thought about it, he was a little cranky. He wanted to slip back into that feeling. He was struck with a pang of bitter jealousy that Sticky was about to take his place in the Whisperer.

“Does it hurt?” Sticky asked. “Are you all right?”

Sticky’s worried expression brought Reynie to his senses. “No . . . no, don’t worry. Just relax. I think . . . I think we’re safe for now. We can talk later.”

“No whispering, boys!” Mr. Curtain called, wheeling over to them. “I dislike all secrets save my own.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Reynie. “I was only telling him not to worry, that it doesn’t hurt.”

Mr. Curtain laughed his screechy laugh. “Of course it doesn’t hurt. It wouldn’t be useful if it did. To function properly, my Whisperer has always needed children, and children are averse to pain — I’ve found that out through experience. No, it doesn’t hurt, George. Quite the opposite. I daresay Reynard can assure you the session was perfectly wonderful. And unusual, I might add — two hours was far, far longer than I expected. As I have said before, Reynard, you have a strong mind. New Messengers rarely make it half an hour before their concentration flies apart and they slip into a daze. Even my seasoned Messengers never last more than an hour.”

Mr. Curtain seemed tired himself. Perspiration glistened on his forehead, and his lumpy nose was splotched with red. Tired but happy, just like Reynie. “I am very pleased, Reynard. Very pleased, indeed. I believe we have more to discuss now. And if George’s session goes even half so well, our discussion will include him, too. Wouldn’t you like that, George? Of course you would. Meanwhile, I’ve sent for some juice. Using the Whisperer calls for frequent refreshment.”

Reynie rose shakily from the seat. His mind kept returning to the phrases he’d been compelled to think: “. . . Brush your teeth and kill the germs. Poison apples, poison worms. The missing aren’t missing, they’re only departed. . . .” And with each phrase came the memory of the pleasure he’d been given by thinking it. He wanted to sit back down, go straight into another session. . . .

Reynie shook his head. He couldn’t believe how strongly the Whisperer took hold of you. Also how much it took out of you — he felt so weak he stumbled over to a cushion and collapsed upon it. Sticky followed and hovered over him, wanting to help somehow, not knowing what to do.

Mr. Curtain, meanwhile, had pressed a button on his chair, and the Whispering Gallery’s metal door was sliding open. Jillson the Executive entered with a plastic jug and paper cups.

“Anything else, sir?” Jillson eyed the boys with grudging approval. She held an esteem for Messengers she didn’t have for other students.

“That will be all, Jillson,” Mr. Curtain replied.

Jillson went out, and Mr. Curtain poured the juice. Plastic jug and paper cups. No glass. Mr. Curtain was indeed careful. But even if they’d had a heavy glass bottle, something hard to conk him over the head with, what then? The Whisperer’s computer circuitry was safely hidden beneath the stone floor, its chair and helmets made of strong metal. How could they possibly do anything about it?

“Ready, George?” said Mr. Curtain. It was more of a command than a question. Sticky gulped and took his place in the machine. Once again Mr. Curtain fitted the red helmet over his head and growled, “Ledroptha Curtain!”

The blue helmet lowered, the cuffs appeared, and Sticky squeezed his eyes shut. His hands strained