The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict

by Trenton Lee Stewart

  “Oh!” she cried, rubbing her hip. “Getting an early start, are you? Hate to waste time, do you?”

  Nicholas, who knew that she was addressing her wandering pain, nonetheless replied, “I do indeed, Mrs. Brindle! I do indeed, and I’m ever so grateful to you for setting me free. Let the day begin!”

  “What?” Mrs. Brindle asked, but Nicholas, whistling brightly, was already off to the bathroom to wash up and change clothes.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Brindle,” Nicholas said when he returned, “how big is Rothschild’s End? The property, I mean.”

  The housekeeper dug a knuckle into her itchy eye. “How should I know? Might be a thousand acres, might be two thousand. Do I look like a surveyor? Is that what I’m doing when I push a mop up and down these floors—am I measuring?”

  Nicholas stepped out of the room so that she could lock the door. “Oh no, of course not. I just wondered what the property boundaries were. I mean, for example, does the estate include all the woods around us?”

  “ ‘For example’? How do you come by these things, boy? For example.” Mrs. Brindle shook her head, then winced and grabbed her neck. She sighed. “Yes, yes, of course all the woods are part of ’Child’s End. Everyone knows that. The property runs all the way to the river in the south and to the Hopefield farm to the north. To the west I don’t know. To the east I don’t know. You’ve asked the wrong person. Now come along,” she added, though Nicholas was two steps ahead of her in the passage.

  “Why, Mrs. Brindle!” Nicholas said, slowing down to match her pace. “To me it seems you know an awful lot! Although it’s true I could ask the other staff members. That’s a good suggestion.”

  Mrs. Brindle frowned. “What suggestion? I didn’t make a suggestion. And I doubt anyone else here could tell you more, as none of them’s been here long. Mr. Collum had to hire all new staff, you know. And was lucky to get us, for what he pays! Lucky for him Mr. Griese was sick of all that restaurant work and city life and wanted a place where he could keep his own little garden. You’ve seen his herb garden; you know what a wonder it is!”

  After that the talk was all about Mr. Griese, and Nicholas let the main part of his attention wander elsewhere. Mrs. Brindle had confirmed his suspicion. The hill behind the park was on the Rothschilds’ property.

  Nicholas excitedly began to plan his expedition. Indeed, he grew so absorbed in his thoughts that when Mrs. Brindle interrupted herself to wonder aloud who had left trash all over the floor, he almost didn’t register the question. Mrs. Brindle was always complaining about trash, and fingerprints on windows and mirrors, and other evidence of human habitation. But then it sank in. They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mrs. Brindle was bending to pick up three pieces of paper from the entranceway floor—three old yellow pieces of paper. With a gasp, Nicholas sprang forward and snatched them up.

  “Who indeed!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Brindle—I’ll throw these away!”

  “Throw what away?” asked Mr. Collum, walking into the entranceway. He was dressed and ready for another day, though he had forgotten his cane. Evidently, he realized this just as Nicholas and Mrs. Brindle turned to look at him, for with a sudden frown he began to feign a limp.

  Nicholas swallowed, resisting the urge to hide the papers behind his back.

  “Why, trash, Mr. Collum!” said Mrs. Brindle, her voice full of outrage. “Trash on the floor! I don’t see how I can be expected to keep this place clean when people throw garbage everywhere they look! It wasn’t even there last night! I’m sure of it! They’re getting up early just to throw trash on the floor!”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Brindle,” said Mr. Collum with a tight smile. “I agree that it is unseemly. But my point was to question whether in fact this ‘trash’ ought to be ‘thrown away,’ which Nicholas was about to do. Remember, we must waste nothing! Might not that paper be used again? Tell me, Nicholas, what is it you’ve picked up?”

  Nicholas hesitated.

  “Nicholas?” Mr. Collum prompted impatiently, and he started to reach for the papers.

  “A ball!” Nicholas cried, wadding up the papers. “A ball, Mr. Collum! Right? It isn’t trash—it’s a toy!” He began tossing the crumpled paper ball into the air and catching it.

  Mr. Collum twitched, irritated by the sudden noise and frenzied motion, but then he nodded. “Well, yes, Nicholas, it could be a ball, although a rather sorry one, to be sure. I see you take my point, however. Please remember it in the future.” With that, he turned and walked to his office door, remembering, halfway there, to limp.

  “Personally, I still say it’s trash,” Mrs. Brindle muttered when Mr. Collum had closed the door behind him.

  “I’ll throw it away,” Nicholas whispered in reply, and so he did, though not before shredding it into a hundred tiny scraps.

  Midnight, and the full moon was high overhead. A small figure darted from shadow to shadow, traversing the parklike grounds of Rothschild’s End. The Manor’s windows were dark. No one awake but Nicholas Benedict. He was fully dressed, pajamas and blankets being unsuitable for such an outing, and he carried a large, awkward-looking lantern that he had not yet dared to light. Fortunately the moon was so brilliant, its silvery light so strong even beneath the looming oak trees, that he had no need of a lantern here. On his back he wore an old flour sack with armholes that he’d cut into it, held secure by a strip of fabric that passed across his chest—his flour-sack backpack, as he thought of it. Inside the backpack were his box of matches and his alarm clock, with plenty of room for additional items, should any prove necessary. He had come prepared.

  Nevertheless, Nicholas was nervous. Never had he taken such a risk—not just of being caught without a good explanation but of wandering into unknown jeopardy. He had never ventured into woods of any kind, and he could not help but think of snakes, scorpions, panthers, bears. Even the thought of stumbling over a sleeping badger was enough to make him anxious. But he would not turn back. Turning back did not even occur to him.

  The night was mild and warm, though the moon gave every surface a frosty appearance, and the thin ringing sound of crickets, frogs, cicadas, and other tiny creatures made Nicholas imagine infinitesimal tambourines being jingled behind every leaf and bush. It was cheering in its way, and by the time he reached the woods at the base of the hill, most of his uneasiness had given over to simple, pleasant excitement.

  Nicholas knelt to light his lantern. It was a strange conglomeration, this lantern, and looked like none other, for he’d cobbled it together from the parts of several different broken lamps and lanterns he’d found in the basement—a working burner here, an uncracked glass chimney there, and so on until he’d fashioned a veritable Frankenstein’s lamp. It was not at all bright, but it lit easily and had a sturdy handle, and Nicholas had scavenged plenty of oil for it.

  Even with the lantern, he spent a long time tramping back and forth at the edge of the woods before he spotted anything resembling a path. From a distance he could not be sure, but plunging deeper in among the trees he confirmed his suspicion—it was a path, all right, though long since overgrown. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he never would have noticed it. Perhaps it was only a deer trail, but it did lead up the hill, and at the sight of it, Nicholas felt ready to burst with expectation.

  You’re on the right track, he thought with a grin, and started up at once. He kept a careful eye on the trail, which zigzagged back and forth to make climbing less difficult. It was much darker in these woods than it had been in the park—the leafy branches overhead formed a canopy that completely obscured the sky—and the hill was very high, but then so was Nicholas’s enthusiasm. Not even the many spiderwebs he accidentally passed through could diminish it. He merely laughed at himself for being so startled each time, brushed the sticky strands from his face as best he could, and pressed on with a breathless “Sorry, madam spider!” and the hope that his clothes were not accumulating arachnids.

  Finally, just as his le
gs were growing wobbly from climbing, Nicholas reached the summit, where the woods gave way to a broad, open clearing. And there, in the middle of the clearing, stood a curious stone structure—a little building with a dome-shaped roof. Nicholas pressed a fist to his mouth, resisting the urge to shout in triumph.

  He had found the observatory.

  The structure was almost entirely covered by vines and grown about with weeds. The overgrowth gave it a shaggy appearance that put Nicholas in mind of a giant’s head, unshaved and unkempt. Windows would have completed the picture—they would have given it eyes—but there were none. Nor was there an actual door, only a dark, empty doorway visible through the screen of vines, which Nicholas briefly imagined as the giant’s gaping maw. The image made him uneasy, however, and he quickly shoved it from his mind. He was about to go in there, after all.

  Holding the lantern high, Nicholas approached the black doorway. He spotted rusty, broken hinges still attached to the frame, and a closer inspection convinced him that the door had been knocked down years ago. Not good. With a rising sense of dread, he swept aside the vines, peered into the observatory’s dark interior, and saw—nothing much. No telescope, at any rate, and certainly no treasure. Only a large, mostly barren room with a dusty stone floor.

  Nicholas ventured two steps through the doorway and stopped, for despite his urgency, he still felt nervous. He swiveled left and right, unsteadily holding out his lantern, which was bright enough to show him everything in the room, if not quite bright enough to dispel all the creepy shadows. The door that used to fit in the doorway lay off to the side, spotted with fungus; a row of old cabinets stood open along the wall to his right, their empty interiors netted with cobwebs; and protruding from the opposite wall were three metal hand cranks. From his reading, Nicholas knew that two of those cranks had been used to open the viewing panels in the observatory roof. The other one, he suspected, had adjusted the position of the telescope (which must have been very large), for on the floor in the center of the room, where the telescope would have stood, was a round metal plate that resembled a giant turntable. The telescope ought to have been firmly secured to it. Instead, broken bolts and bits of rusted metal lay scattered about the floor, evidence of a hasty, forcible removal.

  Nicholas’s dread was rapidly developing into full-blown despair. The telescope had obviously been stolen, and if someone had taken the telescope… He felt his throat tighten, and noticing that his hands were trembling, he put down the lantern, lest he drop it. All day long he had imagined his moment of glorious discovery. Now he imagined someone else reveling in that moment (“My, oh, my—not just a telescope to steal, but a treasure, too!”)—someone else making off with a prize he’d been counting on to change his life.

  “Steady now,” Nicholas cautioned himself. He took a slow, deep breath, then another, and patted his legs as he might have patted the flank of a nervous horse. “Steady, old boy.” If he let himself get too upset, he might go out like a light, and where would he be then? What if his alarm clock failed to wake him? He shuddered at the thought. Removing his flour-sack backpack, he double-checked the alarm clock, taking several more deep breaths as he did so. Soon he began to feel better.

  He had yet to begin a proper search, after all. Perhaps the treasure hadn’t been found by the telescope thieves. It wasn’t likely to have been kept out in plain view, was it? If that door could be knocked down so easily, Mr. Rothschild would not have considered it sufficient protection for his wife’s precious treasure. No, there surely would have been a hiding place—a secret vault beneath the floor, perhaps even a tunnel leading to a subterranean cave. The observatory itself would not have been the treasure chamber. It would simply have contained the chamber’s concealed entrance.

  Yes, the more Nicholas thought about it, the better he liked his chances. Any number of people might have known about the Rothschilds’ expensive telescope, but there was no reason to assume that anyone knew about the treasure. The crooks who came up here with their crowbars and wagons would have been in a terrific hurry to snatch the telescope and flee. How likely was it that they took time to look around for anything out of the ordinary? Not likely at all.

  In a much-improved mood, Nicholas picked up his lantern and went to inspect the old cabinets. He thought they would make a good hiding place for a secret latch or knob. But his search turned up nothing, so he crossed to the opposite wall to take a closer look at the mechanical cranks.

  Right away he was impressed by the cranks’ design. Whatever system of gears and chains they controlled was contained within the observatory walls and underneath its floor. An ingenious piece of engineering, he thought, although maintaining the hidden mechanisms must have been a pain. If ever they needed to be repaired or serviced, part of the wall would have had to be knocked out and patched up again afterward. Perhaps the design was so perfect that such occasions would have been extremely rare. Or perhaps…

  Nicholas ran a finger over the rough mortar between two stones, thinking of the false section of wall in his room. Perhaps some of these stones could be removed just as easily, if only a person knew which ones and the right way to go about it. He looked back at the cranks. What if they operated more than he had thought? What if one of them also moved a stone, or even an entire section of stones, in the wall or floor?

  Nicholas eagerly set down his lantern and applied himself to the lowest of the cranks. It screeched and groaned—it badly needed oiling—and it was exceedingly difficult to turn. Yet turn it did, much to his delight, and as it turned so did the metal plate in the middle of the room, making just the sort of crackling, gravelly noise an actual phonograph would make through its speaker. Nicholas grinned, imagining giant music booming out from a giant record, and he cranked and cranked until he was sure the turntable had gone around at least once. Nothing else happened—no hidden entrances unhid themselves—but he was thoroughly pleased, nonetheless, by this demonstration of mechanical ingenuity. He could easily picture that telescope being rotated so that its lens might be trained on a different section of sky. How he wished he could have seen it in person! How exciting it must have been to look through it!

  Panting from his exertions, Nicholas mopped his brow with his shirt and gazed up at the domed roof. Even without the telescope, he was excited. For that matter, he would have been excited even without the prospect of treasure. The observatory itself was a grand discovery.

  When he’d recovered his breath, Nicholas set to work on the middle crank. He had to use both hands and strain with all his might, and, like the first crank, this one squealed in protest, almost refusing to budge. But then something gave, the crank jerked forward, and Nicholas was rewarded with a popping sound and a shower of dust from above. He paused to look up. Sure enough, one of the rectangular viewing panels had been slightly retracted, leaving a narrow open space near the middle of the dome. A bright shaft of moonbeams and starlight pierced the shadows there, and in that new light hung a spectacular dust cloud, not unlike one of the nebulae he had admired in the astronomy book.

  Nicholas laughed with pleasure and went back to work, turning and turning. He could hear the chains rattling inside the walls. Inch by inch, the viewing panel retracted, replaced by a lengthening rectangle of silvery light. Strands of vine dangled in through the opening, and a few passed over it entirely, but there was nonetheless an excellent view of the night sky. Even from where he stood at the cranks, Nicholas could see a slice of the moon and a dozen shining stars.

  Pausing only to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers, Nicholas seized the topmost crank. And he spent the last of his strength on it, but not before the second roof panel was fully retracted. A long, beautiful strip of stars now traversed the dome. Nicholas gasped for breath, wishing he’d thought to bring water, though at the same time he hardly cared about his thirst. Stooping to extinguish his lantern, he waited for all the dust to settle, then went to stand on the turntable and look up at the sky.

  He was awestruck. Never had t
he stars been so bright, the moon so enormous and richly glowing.

  This is mine, Nicholas thought, and he meant not just the observatory but the sky, the night, the freedom of the world beyond the orphanage walls. He had not expected to think such a thing. He was merely expressing to himself the feeling, the most delicious feeling, that had arisen in him spontaneously.

  A breeze seemed to have arisen, too. Opening the roof panels must have created a draft. It fluttered Nicholas’s collar and made his eyes water, blurring the stars. And then the sensation of tears seemed to trigger a sort of emotional reflex, for the next thing he knew, Nicholas was truly crying, which surprised him. He sat down at once, in case he lost consciousness. And then he lay back completely, still gazing up at the blurry, twinkling stars, and for a long time he continued to cry, and for once he did not care, and did not fall asleep.

  Just before his alarm clock went off, Nicholas reset it for an hour ahead and returned to sit cross-legged on the turntable. For some time now he had been staring at the cranks. Though he’d finally torn his eyes from the night sky, ideas were streaking through his head like meteors and comets.

  The cranks had done their obvious jobs and nothing more. But Nicholas had turned them one at a time, and in a certain order, and only in one direction. What if the sequence mattered? Or the number of turns? What about combinations? Thinking over what he knew about mechanical apparatuses—he had learned a great deal in the last week—Nicholas decided that turning two cranks at the same time might be part of the necessary procedure. Opening a secret entrance might be as simple as that.