"Children, your teacher I will be for the next week. Master Tressa on vacation is. Subbing am I. Yoda my name is. Tell me who can, what lesson you currently are learning?"
A roomful of small jedi are looking at me with unknowing faces. Perhaps I have not expressed myself clearly. Curse the confusing syntax of this language. I must remember to make time for speech lessons. Perhaps next century. Yes, I believe I'm free then.
I choose a clever looking child to reiterate my question to. "You there, what your name is, young one?"
The blonde girl answers shyly, "Lantee, Master."
Lannie, I must remember that. "Latte, what learned you last class with Master Tressa?"
"Levitation, Master. We lifted blocks with our minds."
"Thank you, Lassie." I spy a box full of wooden blocks across the room. I gesture at the tallest boy in the class, "you there boy, what your name is?"
"Qui-Gon, sir Master Yoda, sir."
Kwi dash gone. I will have to remember that. "Boy, fetch you the box of blocks for our practice."
"Sir, yes Sir," he runs off. Is he lisping?
"Come children, a circle you must form."
The small persons arrange themselves into a crooked square with delusions of roundness. Close enough. Most of the young jedi are human, but there are a few other species represented. A small furry wilbock is picking its nose next to a short calamarian. What interests me, however is a thin green child who has placed himself (herself?) towards the rear of the group. The child has long, skinny vegetative limbs and only one large cylindrical, terra-cotta colored foot appendage. Apparently it is from a jungle world and its ancestors acquired characteristics of camouflage. None of this is important, however. I am more concerned that he has placed himself apart from the others. I will make an effort to draw him out.
The children are chattering loudly like muldavian bongo moneys. The din is beginning to give me a headache. The tall boy I sent for the box is returning, although he appears to be struggling with its weight. What was his name again? Something dash something else. Before I can suggest he find assistance, I notice that both of his disproportionately large feet are trying to step in the same spot at once. In seconds they are locked in battle, with the inevitable outcome being that every other part of the boy's body residing above said feet are now approaching the floor to join them. Pandemonium ensues. Blocks fly everywhere landing on young jedi and striking heads, limbs and one of the vegetative child's fronds. The tall kid, what's his dash name, nails two smaller children with his falling body, one of them the wilbock, whose finger is promptly jammed further up his nose than is apparently comfortable. Shrieks, yelps and the crying of the bloody-nosed wilbock fill the air. I am definitely getting a headache.
"Calm yourselves you must," I am screaming, trying to impose a tolerable level of hysteria to the classroom. Before I can continue, however, a small human voice disrupts the chaos with an even louder laugh.
"Ha Ha! Qui-Gon is no jedi! He's just a clumsy idiot!"
Who? I notice the sheepish red face on the tall boy and realize he is the target of the dark haired kid's attack. Said child is continuing to point and snicker when I walk up beside him.
"What your name is boy?" I ask.
"Tindale, Master Yoda." The child knows what he has done is wrong and is looking at me with guilt and a fear of punishment. What was his name again?
"Pinwheel, why laugh you at Tall-Kid's fall?"
The boy looks sideways back and forth as though searching for an answer other than the obvious one that he seems loath to give.
"Because it was funny, sir?"
Force, these children were predictable. "Think you people being hurt amusing is?"
"No sir," Spindle stammers trying to make excuse, "Qui-Gon just looked so silly is all"
Who? Anyway, this boy has easily led me up to one of my favorite parts of instructing young jedi. My famous "Dark Side Speech." Generations of knights have been privileged to hear my famous dissertation on the dangers of the dark side of the force. Class after class of jedi have heard the speech and been forever after wary of its evil lure. It has been contended that thousands of jedi knights upon hearing my discourse have been set permanently upon the path of light. I am not the only one who says that, either. The power of my speech comes in its ability to scare the stuffing out of a youngster. Although also useful on older students, when used on children of this age, it is usually the most effective. What a happy coincidence I have been given an opportunity to regale these students with my masterpiece by this boy, what was his name again?
"Sit you down Twiddle. All of you sit."
They arrange themselves around my feet. All except the vegetable-looking child who has chosen to stay aloof. Perhaps due to the beaning he received from the flying block. A wary species, perhaps. I notice to my surprise that the tall kid, whatever dash whatever, has taken a spot next to Paddle, the latter's transgression apparently forgotten. I begin my opus. "When laugh you at what is different show you not humor. Show you only your fear. Fear of what is different. Many different types of fear there are. Fear of an attacker. Fear of death. Fear of taxes. All are same to jedi however. Fear leads to hate. Hate leads to anger. Anger leads to suffering. Paths to the dark side are these. Beware of the dark side you should."
Sith, I'm good. The children are stunned. I let them stew for a minute, working myself up for the crescendo. If these youngsters are as predictable as I believe, I will soon be given the opening for my coup de grace. I might not get that headache after all.
Young Tinpail gives me fodder to continue speaking. "But Master Yoda, how will we know when the dark side is near?"
"When you are at peace, calm, relaxed. Then know you will."
The children are looking very introspective now. I have obviously had a profound affect on them. Perhaps the scare tactic part of my speech will not be necessary with this group. Maybe I have underestimated them.
A long, skinny arm snakes its way up into the air to waggle a hand at me.
"Question you have Tall-Kid?"
"Yes sir Master, sir," he replies to me. I must speak to Master Tessa about that lisp. "I guess I don't understand, sir. I mean, are you saying that if we laugh at something funny, we're evil?"
My headache is back. None of the other children is giving any indication that they find this question is anything except perfectly reasonable. I think, perhaps I need to move slower.
"No, Tall-Kid," I reassure the boy, "only of the dark side it is when motivated by fear it is. We must be mindful of our feelings. A jedi must seek out his own emotions. Face down his fears, he must."
"That sounds kinda' scary, sir," Tall-Kid spits out. Fairly astute observation, especially given his previous statement. But before I can focus the lesson on this thought, Pimple's belligerent nature surfaces again.
"That's stupid. Qui-Gon's just a scaredy-cat. I'm not afraid of dumb old emotions."
Who? Any way, this boy is practically my straight man. He has given me the fuel for the truly powerful part of my speech. This is too good to resist. I step over towards Tampon until I am directly in front of him. I put on my 'serious-and-somewhat-threatening-jedi-master look.'
"Think you know fear, boy? What know you of fear?" I push my face closer to him with each word. "Not afraid are, you? Well, you will be. You will be."
As I annunciate the last few words, I am almost nose to nose with the young boy. My proximity to the child informs me of the impact my diatribe has had on the lad. I sniff. Urine. The youngster has wet himself. It happens. My speech is very overwhelming, particularly to those whose bodies are not completely under their control yet. Sometimes they faint. Occasionally they vomit or lose patches of fur or scales, but more often then not they prefer to pee.
I step back for fresh air, pretending not to notice. Piddle seems grateful I have not made mention of his accident. My plan for the day had been to tire the children with physical activity before leading them in a discussion of jedi code. Looking at the faces of the children, who seem suitably cowed from my "Dark-Side Speech" I decide to change plans and have our mental exercise now. This tactic will give certain individuals with sopping underpants the chance to dry out.
"Question I have. Tell me who can when a jedi uses his lightsaber?"
He is distracted. "In defiance, Sir?" he lisps at me.
"What?" I am shocked. Oh wait. Obviously, not everyone has the same command of this language as I posses. "Think you again, Tall-Kid. Meant you to use that word?"
The boy places his hand on his chin and screws up his brow. He has completely forgotten the stream of wee-wee inching its way toward his foot.
"No sir, Master Yoda sir. I mean defense sir. Yes, defense." With his enthusiastic answer, he is spraying saliva onto the head of the child in front of him. I must ask Master Tressa about an orthodontist. Yes, I must remember that. "Correct you are Tall-Kid," I congratulate him as he wipes spittle off his chin.
My headache is growing rapidly. I think my skull is twice as large as it was this morning. I decide to abandon the intellectual debate in favor of exercise.
"No more questions. Time it is now to hit each other with sticks," I declare.
"Yippee!" screeches a chubby dark-haired girl. "Lightsaber practice!"
She jumps up and leads the throng of yelling children to a wall where several boxes full of thin, colored wooden sticks are stored. In the rush, I watch as the tall kid trips over one of the blocks that are still scattered around the room and takes a header into the nearest stick container. Practice sabers roll out and are quickly snatched up by eager students.
I pair the students off, trying to create combinations that will enhance their fighting abilities. I have decided to match up Tinkle with Vegetable Boy. Since I cannot easily determine whether the young jungle dweller has any olfactory senses, I decide to take a gamble that he does not and therefore won't be offended by Diddle's pungency. I am concerned however about Vegetable Boy. (Perhaps if I used a more familiar moniker for him, say a nickname like 'Veggie' he could relax more.) Veggie has not chosen a saber stick. Perhaps he is a pacifist. I pick a stick for him, a green one, and place it in the loose black material covering his support appendage. The organic substance yields to the pressure of the practice saber and I take that as an acknowledgment of his desire to train. Good for you, Veggie!
Meanwhile, the yells and screams are becoming nearly intolerable. My head has swollen to ten times its original size. At least I'm sure it must have, because the amount of pain I feel could not fit inside a normal cranium. The students are enthusiastically beating the crap out of one another. Tall-Kid is getting his shins wacked by the chubby girl. The wilbock is dueling one handed, his second paw being employed in excavating the nostril he had neglected earlier. Two skinny girls are lying on the floor smacking each other's heads after apparently doing enough damage to legs and feet that standing is no longer a viable option. I glance at Veggie and Sprinkle. The human boy is easily knocking the other's stick away with each blow. But to my satisfaction I watch as each time Veggie's saber clatters to the floor, Wizzer stoops to pick it up. Of course this manages to display the large yellow stain on his breaches, but I am proud of Wetter for his generosity towards the vegetable boy. I am proud of Veggie, too, for his perseverance.
I allow the practice to continue, giving instruction where needed and demonstration with my cane when words cannot penetrate thick skulls. Finally, the children begin to tire and I send them towards the storage bins to put up their sticks. My noggin is now the size of a speeder bike and growing. I look up at the chronometer and blissfully realize the class is finally over.
"All for today that is, children. Go you now to your quarters. For dinner you must clean up. "This last statement brightens Puddle's face considerably.
As the children file out of the classroom, I notice that Veggie has remained behind. Perhaps he seeks individual training. Truly a sign of maturity, that. But I cannot offer to him what he lacks the courage to ask from me. I seek him out to test the strength of his resolve.
"Young one, why stay you behind?"
He ponders my query, perhaps searching for the proper phrasing to state his intentions. I am longing to return to my quarters and find rest and perhaps aspirin, but the training of my students is more important. He is taking his damn sweet time, but I wait. A jedi is patient.
Suddenly I sense a familiar presence near my left elbow.
"Yes, Tall-Kid. What need you?"
"I just wanted to ask you one last question, sir Master Yoda sir," the boy hoses me with his reply.
My head is the size of a bantha now. Hanging on the fragile thread of my neck like an overripe jojabba fruit the weight of which pulls on the delicate branch threatening to snap it in two.
"So ask already."
"I'm just wondering, Master Yoda, sir, why it is you keep talking to that potted plant."
Snap!
"To your room go, Qui-Gon."
"Yes sir, Master Yoda, sir. See you tomorrow, sir," the youngster fixes me with a wide grin which displays the gaping hole where his front teeth used to be and would soon be again.
What do you know? It's not a lisp after all.
END