I know it was unusual, but I didn’t know what to say.

The jubilation slowly died down, leaving Dougal looking at me as if I’d just told him he couldn’t have dessert.

“Forgive me, my Lady. Perhaps you are not in the mood for storytelling after today’s events.” He looked at me pitifully with those big, brown eyes. Like a humongous puppy.

Jeesh.

“No, I, uh, just need a moment to, uh—” pause and stall for time “—think of which story I would like to tell.”

Oh, God. Which story which story which story which story? I have almost the entire Cat in the Hat memorized, but somehow I didn’t think it was particularly appropriate.

My little teacher brain started rifling through my mental file entitled “Nearly Worthless Stuff You’ve Memorized.” And, bam! Sophomore English came to my rescue!

I smiled at Dougal and saw him practically squirm with pleasure. If he had had a puppy’s tail, I’m sure it would’ve wagged vigorously—and he probably would’ve wet himself. He really was cute.

For years I have been attempting to hammer into sixteen-year-olds the beauty of the poetic ballad. I’m pretty sure to no avail. But my effort to enlighten the masses has had one side effect—I can recite The Highwayman and The Lady of Shallot backward, forward, in my sleep and standing on my head (which I’ve never actually tried in class—yet). I like them both, but I’m a little partial to The Highwayman, especially the version put to music by Loreena McKennitt. Alfred Noyes had written a very cool ballad, but Loreena had sprinkled it with Irish magic. Very tragic—very Celtic. And easier to recite than the original.

I played at straightening my hair (a futile attempt) and my clothes (another futile…well, you get the idea) as my mind raced through the stanzas, substituting appropriate phrasing for awkward words, such as claymore for musket, blade for trigger, shattering the night with a scream instead of the blast of a musket…etc., etc. I hadn’t noticed any guns since I’d been here, and I figured that if this world had them then it was a pretty good bet that the centaurs would own some.

I stood up and threw back my shoulders, giving them all my best “pay attention to me I’m the teacher and I love to be the center of attention” look. They appeared to be an attentive class. I cleared my throat and began:

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the Highwayman came riding—

riding—riding—

The Highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

Now, I know I can’t sing, but I also know that even in my own world I am a pretty darn good storyteller. My students love it when I read or recite to them. I do all the voices. According to them, “it’s cool.” So, I may not be Loreena McKennitt with her hauntingly beautiful pitch and tone, but I wasn’t trying to be. I didn’t sing the ballad; I recited it with passion and expression.

By the second stanza I had them.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

I walked around the campfires as I spun the tragic and beautiful story of The Highwayman, working my audience. They smiled their pleasure as Bess (the landlord’s daughter) plaited “a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.” I gravitated to ClanFintan as I told of how Bess’s Highwayman kissed the waves of her hair and swore to return to her by the moonlight, “though hell should bar the way.”

Then I stiffened my spine and threw up my chin—and I became Bess as the Redcoats gagged her and bound her to her bed, attempting to use her as the means to trap her beloved. I let my eyes fill with tears as Bess gallantly ran a sword through her breast and screamed a warning (which I substituted for the musket shot—I didn’t think Noyes would mind, him being a dead Englishman, stiff upper lip and all) so that her Highwayman wasn’t captured.

Then the centaurs’ eyes widened when the Highwayman found out it was his love who was killed warning him.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

with the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were the spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

when they cut him down on the highway,

down like a dog on the highway,

and he lay in his blood on the highway,

with a bunch of lace at his throat.

I began the last stanza standing in the shadows between the two fires, hands tracing the patterns of the words like a magician performing illusions in the shade-filled air of the night.

Still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A Highwayman comes riding—

Riding—riding—

A Highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

I ended by clasping my hands before me and looking over my shoulder off into the distance—like I was sure the friggin Highwayman’s ghost was riding up behind us. The guys were quiet for a second, then (thank God) they broke into riotous applause, all talking at once about the bad-assed Redcoats and wondering where they could find a Bess of their own.

I made my way back to ClanFintan, amidst the congrats of the troops, and reperched on my log.

“I liked your story.” ClanFintan handed me the wineskin and I took a grateful swig.

“Thanks. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I have never heard it before.” His voice sounded different—more contemplative than curious.

“Oh, well, I’m not surprised. I made it up.” I had my fingers crossed behind my back. I truly didn’t mean to plagiarize, and I sent up a silent apology to the dead Mr. Noyes.

“Who are the Redcoats?”

“The bad guys. It’s a clothing metaphor for evil.” He didn’t look convinced, so I switched on and went into teacher mode. “Red is for blood. Blood has a negative connotation. Therefore, a red coat would be a figurative allusion for an evil person or peoples. As would a sun rising to a red sky in the morning be a portent of disaster to come. Or a red look would be a negative or bad look.”

“And King George is who?”

At least he uses correct grammar.

“A made-up guy.” My fingers were recrossing themselves.

“And a highwayman is…” He paused, waiting for me to fill in the correct answer.

“A thief who uses a road that winds its way like a ribbon up a mountain. Hence the ‘high’ part of the word.” I tried to meet his eyes, but didn’t do a great job selling my fibs. I’m really not a very good liar. A good exaggerator, yes—a good liar, no.

“Hrumph.”