of wellness, Ben has been instrumental in initiating a paradigm shift in the approach to health and wellness in societies around the world.
Ben watches a flock of seagulls circle a trash-bin at the beach across from the hotel. He recalls the challenges he faced in the early years of his campaign at a time when people had come to expect a quick fix for their health problems. Swallowing a pill was easy—it was the preferred approach to correcting the ills that resulted from a lifetime of neglect, inactivity, poor diet and not connecting to the emotional and spiritual aspects of their lives. Ben challenged this approach head-on by teaching that common contemporary diseases could be prevented if people simply adopted healthy lifestyles and tapped into the healing power within the human body.
This was a tough sell at a time when technology and pharmacology were perceived as the answers to all known medical problems. Because disease and sickness were thought to originate externally, it seemed logical to assume that the solutions should also come from outside the body. Ben’s challenge was to turn this thinking around and help people to realize that both sickness and wellness come from within. In the early years, he considered it a successful evening if he were able to draw a crowd of a dozen people to listen to his message.
Now, standing on the balcony of his Toronto hotel room, he is about to address his largest audience ever. One hundred thousand people are expected to pack the Multi-Dome to pay tribute to “The Messenger of Health” on the 50th anniversary of his campaign to make the world a better place in which to live. There has been the usual media speculation that this will be Ben’s last major event, but this is nothing new. Conventional thinking about health and wellness may have changed, but there were still those who believed that a 98-year-old man should start thinking seriously about retirement. He smiles. There is still work to be done, he realizes.
A knock at the door startles Ben. He’s not expecting visitors and has left instructions at the front desk that he is not to be disturbed during the afternoon.
“Mister Dayton?” yells the voice from the other side of the door. “Benjamin Dayton? There’s a box for you.”
“What—a box? Who’s there?” he asks through the closed door.
“It’s a trunk,” comes the reply. “The packing slip says it’s from a Daniel Webster. I need your signature.”
Ben is stunned. He freezes in his tracks as he considers what he has just heard. How could there be a delivery from Daniel, here, on this day? This has to be some kind of practical joke.
“Mr. Dayton? Are you there?” asks the voice.
Ben closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly. He has an image in his mind of Daniel and Elizabeth Webster. Over the past five decades they have given him as much guidance, strength and inspiration as they had during the short time that he had known them during the last years of their lives in Wakefield. As far as Ben was concerned, they were dead, although this fact was never ascertained. They had simply disappeared without a trace 50 years ago. But even if they were alive then, surely they’d be dead by now. If not, Daniel would be 142 years old, and his wife, Elizabeth, would be 137. Even they couldn’t have lived this long, he thinks.
“Can you sign for this, sir?” asks the voice again. “I have other deliveries that I have to make this afternoon.”
Ben turns the handle, slowly swings the door open, and stares at the trunk sitting in his doorway. “This can’t be possible,” he exclaims softly. “It can’t be.”
“Are you OK, sir?” asks the delivery agent as Ben falls to his knees in front of the trunk.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he replies. Without lifting his head, he reaches for the shipping invoice, scrawls his signature hastily, then hands it back and begins to drag the trunk into the room.
“Let me help, sir,” offers the agent.
“That’s all right,” replies Ben. “Don’t worry about me. And thanks for bringing this.” He pulls a roll of American bills from his pocket. “I hope you don’t mind American money,” he says apologetically. “I just returned from New Orleans and haven’t had time to change my money yet.” Peeling off a couple of bills, he hands the agent the largest tip he has ever received.
“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous,” says the grateful agent. “Good luck tonight, Mr. Dayton. I’ll be there, you know. My seat is way up in the nose-bleed section, though, so don’t look for me in the crowd,” he laughs. “Really nice meeting you, sir.”
Ben extends his arm and the two shake hands. Ben looks him straight in the eye. “Take care of yourself, young man,” he advises. “I hope you enjoy the presentation tonight. Good bye, now.” He turns quickly and continues to drag the trunk into the room. The agent watches, then closes the door as he turns and leaves.
The last time Ben had seen this trunk he was 47 years old and Daniel Webster was still fixing automobile engines at his home in Wakefield. How has it found its way to this hotel room after all these years and why now? Who hired the agent to deliver it? He leaps from the edge of the bed, opens the door quickly and scans the empty corridor. He should have questioned the young man, but the shock of hearing Daniel’s name and seeing the trunk had caught him off-guard. He regrets this mental lapse. Maybe they’ll know downstairs, he hopes as he reaches for the phone.
“This is Ben Dayton in 463,” he explains. “Can you tell me the name of the delivery service that dropped off the trunk here a few minutes ago?”
“There haven’t been any deliveries to any guests this afternoon, Mr. Dayton,” replies the desk clerk. “All deliveries must come to the front desk for inspection. If there had been a delivery to your room, we’d have a record of it.”
“You didn’t see a young man in a blue uniform, just five minutes ago, delivering a large wooden trunk on a push cart?” he asks in disbelief.
“No, sir. Someone would have noticed that. Besides, no one but guests can access the rooms. That’s why you have the security pass. Delivery agents must report to the front desk. Maybe you’d better not open it, if you aren’t sure. I can send someone up from security,” she offers.
“No, no, that’s not necessary. I know what’s in the trunk. I just wanted to know who delivered it. I wanted to ask him a few questions. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
He hangs up the phone, and then sits down again on the edge of the bed, staring at the trunk.
“Well, Daniel,” he whispers, “congratulations. You never cease to amaze me. Even fifty years after the fact.”
He reaches for his attaché case, opens it, unzips a flap covering a small pocket and retrieves the skeleton key that he has been carrying with him for more than 50 years. He discovered it on the day he had last seen the Websters alive. He knew that it was the key to the trunk that held the results of their 25 years of research into the 11 secrets. Daniel had referred to the folders inside this trunk on countless occasions during their discussions on health and wellness. But as willing as they were to share their knowledge and pass it on to a new champion, they guarded the contents of the trunk religiously, keeping them under constant lock and key. Ben had always hoped—even assumed—that he would be given the opportunity to study these documents, so he didn’t force the issue. Biding his time turned out to be the wrong strategy, though. When the Websters disappeared the only thing they took with them was the trunk.
Besides the benefit of
