Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

now. A brutal hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and a fist
smashed against his cheek.
“Teacher’s pet! Makes us all look bad!”
Cutler knew he should fight back, should, at the very least, scream
for help. Master MacFarlin might still be within earshot. But something
strange seemed to have happened to him. He couldn’t make himself
move or react. He couldn’t even blink. It was as though he’d gone
somewhere else, outside himself, somewhere unconnected with his
own body, which was now lying bloody and motionless on the path.
Somewhere inside young Beckett’s mind, he was screaming and
terrified, but that part of him seemed distant and unreachable.
Surprised and unnerved by his victim’s lack of reaction, Lord
Marcus hesitated, the foot that he’d raised to kick Cutler suspended in
midair.
“Stop that! What are ye imps of Satan doing?”
The hands that had been holding him down released him abruptly
as Master Richmond and Master Jeremiah jumped up. Schoolmaster
MacFarlin raced around the side of the schoolhouse from the direction
of the privy, a lunch pail dropping forgotten from his hand. His Scottish
burr was at full force in his agitation. The boys scattered, racing away,
as the tutor flung himself down beside Cutler. “What have they done to
ye, lad?” he said, gently touching the boy’s bleeding cheek.
Cutler Beckett finally blinked, and the world came back into focus.
He was back in his body, and he hurt. Tears started from his eyes, but
he would not allow himself to sob. Instead he slowly sat up, bruised and
stiff, and allowed the tutor to tend to him, fussing over his injuries.
Carefully, MacFarlin helped the boy to rise, then escorted him into
his little office, the only other room in the small schoolhouse building.
There he poured water from a ewer into a bowl and cleaned the blood
from Cutler’s face. After making sure the injuries weren’t serious, he
smeared an evil-smelling salve on the scrapes. Then, taking out a
brush, he began whisking the dirt from the lad’s clothes, though nothing
could be done to salvage his torn knee stockings. All the while he
carried on a soothing monologue, assuring young Cutler that he’d soon
be “right as rain.”
“’Tis a brave lad ye are, that’s for certain,” MacFarlin said, his burr