The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey

“Everybody,” Reynie said.

“Everybody?”

“Or . . . or almost everybody. I certainly don’t think that about you — or about any of us who’ve come together because of you. And there’s Miss Perumal and her mother, of course, and a few other people. In general, though . . .” Reynie shrugged. “I thought with the Whisperer out of commission — with Mr. Curtain’s hidden messages no longer affecting people’s minds — well, I thought things would start to seem different. Better. But that hasn’t happened.”

“You aren’t doubting what you accomplished, I hope.”

Reynie shook his head. “No, I know we stopped terrible things from happening. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to start seeing things — to see people — this way.”

Mr. Benedict made as if to rise, then thought better of it. “An old habit,” he said. “I occasionally feel an urge to pace, which, as you know, is ill-advised. If I dropped off and brained myself against the bookcase, Number Two would never let me hear the end of it.”

Reynie chuckled. He was well aware of Number Two’s fearsome protectiveness.

Mr. Benedict settled back against his desk. “It’s natural that you feel as you do, Reynie. There is much more to the world than most children — indeed, most adults — ever see or know. And where most people see mirrors, you, my friend, see windows. By which I mean there is always something beyond the glass. You have seen it and will always see it now, though others may not. I would have spared you that vision at such a young age. But it’s been given you, and it will be up to you to decide whether it’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Benedict, but how can it possibly be a blessing to know that people are untrustworthy?”

Mr. Benedict looked at Reynie askance. “Rather than answer that, allow me to call attention to the assumption you’re making — the assumption that most people are untrustworthy. Have you considered the possibility, Reynie, that wickedness is simply more noticeable than goodness? That wickedness stands out, as it were?”

When Reynie looked doubtful, Mr. Benedict nodded and said, “I wouldn’t expect you to change your mind so quickly. You’re used to being right about people — we all know you have marvelous intuition — and it’s difficult for you to question the conclusions you’ve drawn. But as I do with my pacing, Reynie, you must guard against old habits leading you astray.” Mr. Benedict crossed his arms and regarded Reynie shrewdly. “Let me ask you: Have you ever had a dream in which, having spied a deadly snake at your feet, you suddenly begin to see snakes everywhere — suddenly realize, in fact, that you’re surrounded by them?”

Reynie was surprised. “I have had that dream. It’s a nightmare.”

“Indeed. And it strikes me as being rather like when a person first realizes the extent of wickedness in the world. That vision can become all-consuming — and in a way, it, too, is a nightmare, by which I mean that it is not quite a proper assessment of the state of things. For someone as observant as you, Reynie, deadly serpents always catch the eye. But if you find that serpents are all you see, you may not be looking hard enough.”

Reynie had mulled this over — was still mulling it over, in fact, and not a little doubtfully — but had let the subject drop as he and Mr. Benedict played a game of chess. Reynie had never beaten Mr. Benedict; in the relatively few games they’d played, however, he had learned a great deal from him — and not always about chess. As often as not, their games were interrupted by long discussions of other matters, and this time was no different. Mr. Benedict gave no indication of surprise when, half an hour later, Reynie responded to an announcement of check by asking, “So you’ve had the snake nightmare, too?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Benedict, gently setting aside the rook he’d just taken. (He was always respectful of Reynie’s pieces, as if he considered their capture an unfortunate necessity.) “It’s a common nightmare, and I’ve had it many times, as well as a great many others that are more rare. Part of my condition, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?” Reynie had always known that Mr. Benedict’s narcolepsy made him prone to unpredictable episodes of sleep; beyond this, he realized now, he knew almost nothing.

For a moment Mr. Benedict didn’t speak, only gazed contemplatively at his fingers as if considering them for the first time. It seemed to Reynie that for some reason he was reluctant to answer, but that he didn’t wish to dismiss Reynie’s question, either. The latter impulse won out, apparently, for at length Mr. Benedict looked up and said, “For someone like me, Reynie, nighttime can be just as trying as daytime. It’s always a relief to give over to sleep, of course — to stop fighting against it, as I must do during the day — but I am often beset by nightmares, strange fits of waking paralysis, and even hallucinations, which can be quite terrifying.”

“That’s awful!” Reynie said. “I had no idea.”

“Well,” Mr. Benedict said, “I am long since used to it. I’ve even made friends with the Old Hag.”

“The Old Hag?”

“An ancient name for one of the more common hallucinations. I sometimes awake to the vision of a hunched figure at the end of my bed. Sadly, this hallucination is usually accompanied by paralysis.”

Reynie was aghast. “You mean to say there’s a strange person lurking by your bed — in the darkness — and you’re not able to move?”

“Nor even to cry out,” said Mr. Benedict. “It’s rather inconvenient.”

Reynie shuddered, imagining it. “I’d be scared out of my mind!”

“That is the most common reaction,” Mr. Benedict said with a smile. “And I admit I’m only joking when I say I’ve befriended her. Let’s just say I recover more quickly from our encounters than I used to. At any rate, the hallucinations and the paralysis rarely last more than a minute.”

That minute must seem like an eternity, Reynie thought. Then something occurred to him. “What about Mr. Curtain? Do you think that happens to him, too? Do you think it might be why he’s so obsessed with controlling things?”

Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “Very astute, Reynie. I’ve often wondered that myself. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that my brother’s nightly torments and daily struggles have contributed to his obsession. Though I’ve long since come to terms with my own spells of helplessness, it did take years before I stopped feeling ashamed of them. Evidently my brother has taken a different tack and has achieved no such resolution.”