All claims, disclaimers and acknowledgements for this story are posted in the Author's Note at the beginning of Chapter 1.
THE OUTLAW
2. Introduction.
"Good morning, class!" the Principal said. "I am here to introduce you to your new language teacher, Mr. Adrian Flowerdew. Mr. Flowerdew replaces Mr. Maillard who, as you remember, is no longer with us…"
"No longer with us!" thought Jeremy. "No longer with us! Why doesn't he say it? Mr. Maillard is dead. Alive and well one minute, dead the next. The coroners are baffled, as always. They can't understand why every vital organ failed at once. But we understand. We know. He died just like the others we failed to save. The return to the past can't bring back what's not there to be brought back."
Jeremy would have continued to reflect on how Mr. Maillard really died, how Yumi tried to save him and nearly got herself killed in the process, how guilty Yumi felt that she couldn't save him, and how guilty he felt for thinking that, if one of them had to go, he was thankful it was Maillard and not Yumi. Mercifully, however his thoughts were cut short by his realization that Odd was kicking his chair.
"It's him!" Odd hissed. "The cowboy!"
He looked less like a cowboy than he did when Odd and Ulrich saw him with his motorcycle. He wore a navy blue suit with the jacket open to reveal a dark purple shirt with white and lime-green pinstripes and a white tie. His cowboy boots had been replaced with black loafers with spats. It would not have been difficult to imagine him with a fedora, a toothpick hanging from his mouth, and a tommy-gun, just as earlier he looked like he could have used a Stetson and a six-gun to complete his look. However, the Prohibition-era gangster image was rejected immediately whenever they looked at those huge military whiskers, which spoke more of horse and sabre than of running board and tommy-gun.
He still had the railroad watch; while the watch itself was hidden from view, the telltale chain appeared from the third buttonhole on his shirt and went downward and toward his right side until it disappeared into a fob pocket just above his normal right pants pocket. It fit his attire much better now than it did before. His current appearance cemented Ulrich's vague misgivings into a deep distrust. He was certain now that this Mr. Flowerdew was dangerous, and to be avoided at all cost.
Ignorant of the apprehension his appearance was causing, or perhaps merely indifferent to it, Mr. Flowerdew walked between the rows of desks and spoke to the class: "I am sure most of you believe language class to be a long, boring list of rules that you are supposed to remember when speaking or writing so that you can get a good grade. It is rather more than that. It is to give you an appreciation of language, which is no less than a comprehensive communication system. The purpose of language is for individuals to communicate precisely with each other. The reason for all the boring rules is to enhance the precision of language. Full and clear understanding of the rules enables one to use the rules to communicate ideas and descriptions, and also to use them, or creatively to break them, in order to express feelings or emotions. However, in order to know how to break them effectively, one should know what they are and why they exist."
"Wow!" Odd said to his colleagues, "He must be good at language; he sure uses a lot of it!"
"The communication of emotions," continued the object of Odd's ridicule, "is perhaps the most difficult burden the function of language has to bear. It is not that difficult in face-to-face conversation, where facial expression and vocal inflection play a greater part in communicating emotion, but the written word does not have these advantages. It is left to the writer's vocabulary and to his knowledge of how to use and manipulate the rules of language to speak to the reader at the deepest level. It should not be surprising, therefore, that the best examples of emotional writing are usually found in poetry, where the rules of writing differ a little to allow for greater means of expression."
This was too much for Odd, who blurted out, "Roses are red, violets are blue, septic tanks stink, and how do you do!" for all to hear.
Ulrich, who normally thought such doggerel to be funny, watched apprehensively and waited for the other shoe to drop.
Mr. Flowerdew glared furiously at Odd, and then a sneer flashed across his face too quickly to be noticed. Glaring once again, he snarled: "I suppose you are one of those boys who believe that poetry is some soppy stuff of flowers and silly nonsense created by the lovesick for the lovesick!" His face then collapsed immediately into a dejected frown and he turned and walked toward his desk. "I suppose you're right," he moped. "What can I say to dispel that perception? Nothing really, except…
"CANNON to the right of them," he boomed as he whipped around to face Odd, who yelped at the combined assault of the explosive fury of Mr. Flowerdew's voice, the swiftness and violence of his turn, and the dark, thunderous look on his gnarled face. "CANNON to the left of them," he continued without pause. "CANNON in front of them volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of DEATH, into the mouth OF HELL…" he paused, his eyes bulging, the purple veins straining in his neck, his face rigid in a look of demonic fury, and then, hissing through his teeth, he continued in a low but ominous voice: "…rode the six hundred."
He turned again toward his desk and said in a voice just loud enough to audible by everyone, "Tell Tennyson that poetry is soppy girl stuff."
There was silence for a minute and a half, at which point Mr. Flowerdew gave them an assignment from the text to be completed within the remainder of the class.
As the bell rang and the children started to get up, Mr. Flowerdew shouted from his desk "You there! Purple and pink! What's your name?"
"Me?" asked Odd.
"Yes, you! The rest of the class is dismissed!"
"Odd, sir," he said, as the rest of the class filed out of the room, Ulrich lagging behind the others.
"An appropriate enough name, I would imagine. Come here, boy!"
"Yes, sir," Odd said, and he approached the desk with anguish. Ulrich waited by the door.
"I am not giving you this," the teacher said as he pulled a book from his bag. "I am merely lending it to you until the end of the year. You will probably enjoy it and might actually learn something from it." He handed the book to Odd. "I want it returned in good condition, mind!" he admonished.
Odd looked at the cover. It had no picture or pattern on it, just a green background with white lettering that read "Poetry of War and Death / Compiled by Robert Clydesfirth"
"You may go now," Mr. Flowerdew said.
"Thank you, sir," Odd said as he left.