Authors: Brian Jacques
The Ribbajack (2 page)
Mr. Plother, who had been exploring underneath Archibald’s bed, scrambled out backwards on all fours, red-faced and excited. “Help me to move this bed out from the wall, Matron, there’s a lot of stuff hidden beneath it.”
He jumped aside as the matron moved the bed with a single heave. They stared in horror at the collection of books, jars and apparatus which lay uncovered. Mr. Plother gasped.
“Sorcery, necromancy, wizardry! Oh, deary me!”
The worthy matron shone her torch over the unsavoury heap. “We were fortunate to have found this in time, sir. Look at the labels on these jars. Eye of Lizard, Skin of Worm, Tooth of Rat, Limb of Toad! Oh, the vile boy!”
Craning her head sideways, she read the titles of the books which were strewn about the floor.
“
The Secrets of Medieval Warlocks. Voodoo in Six Easy Steps. You Too Can Conjure Up the Spirits. Tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. How to Become a Master of Malice.
This is a library of the dark arts, how did Smifft get it all?”
The Secrets of Medieval Warlocks. Voodoo in Six Easy Steps. You Too Can Conjure Up the Spirits. Tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. How to Become a Master of Malice.
This is a library of the dark arts, how did Smifft get it all?”
Mr. Plother was studying a deck of tarot cards and a Ouija board. He dusted absently at his gown. “Well, at least he’s reading. Hello, what’s this?”
The matron swept a shrunken head from his hand. “Don’t you realise the danger this school is in, Headmaster? Archibald Smifft is learning the forbidden arts, black magic!”
Aubrey Plother blinked nervously over the rim of his glasses. “Oh, good grief, you’re right, marm. What do you suggest we do?”
A shrill, harsh voice interrupted them. “I suggest you leave my stuff alone, and get out of my room, right now!” Archibald Smifft stood framed in the doorway, his beady eyes flickering angrily from one to the other as he hissed, “Go on, clear out, or you’ll both be sorry!”
The headmaster wilted under the fiendish glare. He dithered, “Ah, yes, er, Smifft. Back from the dairy farm early, aren’t we?”
Archibald strode forward and tugged his bed back into place. “The others are still there, I wasn’t allowed to stay. Huh, just because all the milk turned sour and a big cheese fell on the farmer’s wife. Just as well I came right back, eh? What do you two think you’re doing in my dorm? Speak up!”
Mrs. Twogg pushed the headmaster behind her. Puffing up to her full matronly height, she glared down at the boy. “Archibald Smifft, how dare you take that tone to your elders and betters! Explain yourself, what is the meaning of all that dreadful rubbish beneath your bed?”
Archibald’s eyes narrowed to slits. He pointed a grubby finger at the matron and made a brief incan tantion:
“By the lifeless eye from a dead man’s socket, see what lies within thy pocket.”
One thing Mrs. Twogg could not abide was a cockroach. Placing her hand in her overall pocket, she encountered not one, but four of the large, fat insects writhing about there. She fled the dormitory, gurgling loudly in disgust.
Mr. Plother was still dithering indecisively as Archibald turned the grimy finger upon him, chanting:
“Flies which feed from long-dead flesh,
growing fat on some cold face,
soon will circle round your head,
if you do not leave this place!”
growing fat on some cold face,
soon will circle round your head,
if you do not leave this place!”
The headmaster uttered one loud word (well, three, if you count
Yee harr wooh
separately). Archibald sat upon his bed, listening to the unfortunate man taking the stairs two at a time as he beat furiously at the cloud of big bluebottles which were attacking his head. Reaching beneath the bed, Archibald drew forth his favourite book. For over an hour, he leafed through the volume of spells and curses, muttering darkly in frustration.
Yee harr wooh
separately). Archibald sat upon his bed, listening to the unfortunate man taking the stairs two at a time as he beat furiously at the cloud of big bluebottles which were attacking his head. Reaching beneath the bed, Archibald drew forth his favourite book. For over an hour, he leafed through the volume of spells and curses, muttering darkly in frustration.
“Hmph, flies, spiders, wasps and worms, beginners’ stuff! I need something better. Bigger, more powerful, something really bad and terrifying. A monster, that’s what I need!”
Soames and Wilton had entered the dormitory via the door at the far end, since they were not allowed to use Archibald’s door. As quietly as possible, both boys took out their P.E. kit. They could hear Archibald ranting on from behind his barricade.
“
Voodoo in Six Easy Steps—
what good is that to me? There’s not a spleen of python or a tooth of crocodile for miles around, or a sting of scorpion!”
Voodoo in Six Easy Steps—
what good is that to me? There’s not a spleen of python or a tooth of crocodile for miles around, or a sting of scorpion!”
Wilton’s bedside locker door creaked as he tried to open it silently. He winced as Archibald’s unsightly head popped up over the top of the barricade.
“Where do you two think you’re going?”
Soames gulped visibly. “Oh, er, hello there, Smifft. We were just getting changed for P.E. in the gym. Aren’t you coming?”
Archibald sneered. “Nah, no time for that rubbish. Anyhow, old Bamford won’t be there, he’s got a swollen foot. Horsefly bite, I think.”
Wilton thrust one foot into a shoe. “But we just saw him when we came back from the dairy farm visit. Mr. Bamford looked alright then. He told us to get changed into P.E. kit, said he wanted to see you in the gym, too.”
Archibald glanced at the wall clock. “Oh, it’s only two-fifteen. Don’t worry, by half past, old Bamford should have a swollen foot, trust me.”
Just then, Bertie Rivington from the next dorm shoved his head around the doorway. “I say, you chaps heard the latest? P.E. cancelled. Old Bammers was stung by some whopping great wasp. His foot’s swollen up like a balloon, all red and puffy!”
As Rivington ran off to spread the news, Archibald shrugged. “See, I told you. Huh, that idiot Rivington doesn’t know the difference between a wasp and a horsefly. Anyhow, you two aren’t going anywhere. Sit down, I want a word with you both. Sit down, I said, the sound of your knees knocking is beginning to annoy me.”
Soames and Wilton obeyed with alacrity. It did not pay to annoy Archibald Smifft.
The headmaster sneezed vigorously, his hair still damp from Zappit, the lilac-scented fly spray. As he wiped his eyes on a fresh kerchief, a knock sounded on his study door. He sneezed as he called out, “En taaachah!”
“Gesundheit, Headmaster!”
Mrs. Twogg entered, clad in a crisply starched and laundered uniform. She sat down, shuddering slightly at the memory of cockroaches roaming around in her pocket. “Headmaster, something must be done about the Smifft boy! These dreadful things he is practising will bring the school to rack and ruin. I insist that you act immediately!”
Mr. Plother stifled another sneeze, looking blankly at her. “Smifft, ah, yes. Er, what do you suggest we do, Matron?”
She consulted her fob watch. It was shortly before three. “Invite the school chaplain to tea, we must seek his advice. Men of the cloth usually know about exorcising demons and countering the forbidden arts.”
Mr. Plother picked up the phone and began dialling. “It’s worth a try, I suppose, but the Padre may be a bit out of his depth with occult matters.”
Archibald perched cross-legged on the bed. From under beetling brows he scanned his quaking dormitory companions. They waited on his words with bated breath. “Listen, you two, I need a monster, a really scary one. So, have you got any ideas?”
Wilton stammered, “A m-monster, wh-what d’you m-mean?”
Their interrogator gnawed thoughtfully on a dirt-encrusted fingernail. “I’m not quite sure exactly. Put it this way, Wilty. What could frighten the daylights out of you, eh?”
Wilton’s answer was not overly helpful. “Y-you, S-Smifft.”
The malevolent stare turned to Soames. “What about you?”
A nervous tic began afflicting the boy’s right eye. “Er, you, I suppose.”
Their tormentor bounded from the bed, causing both boys to jump with fright as he exploded at them. “You suppose? Listen, you two dithering dummies, you’d better start coming up with some proper answers. You know what happened to Bamford. I can conjure up bees and wasps, you know. Ones that can give nasty stings to a chap’s rear end. Then chaps have to drop their pants so Matron can treat them. So you’d better talk fast, understand?”
Tears beaded in Wilton’s eyes. His lip began quivering. “Wh-what d-d’you want us to say, S-Smifft?”
Archibald pounded the bedside locker top. “Don’t you dare start blubbering, Wilton, just answer my question. What really terrifies you, eh? A bogeyman, a vampire, a ghost, a spook! What? Tell me!”
Wilton practically yelped his answer. “The dark! I’ve always been frightened of the dark.”
Archibald nodded. “So that’s why you’re always lurking under the sheets with your torch on after lights out. Huh, you’d better come up with something good, Soames.”
Peterkin Soames blinked hard, pausing awhile before he spoke. “The only think I can think of is the Ribbajack.”
Smifft’s mad eyes lit up hopefully. “What’s the Ribbajack? Tell me all about it. Now!”
Soames tried to avoid Archibald’s maniacal stare. He told what little he knew about the oddly named Ribbajack. “My father is with the B.O.C.S., that’s the British Overseas Colonial Services. Actually, he’s an assistant district commissioner in Burma, stationed in an area called the Paktai Hills. He says it’s a rather strange country, with lots of beliefs and superstitions which we know very little about.”
Archibald interrupted abruptly. “What about this Ribbajack?”
Soames flinched under the savage intensity of the question. “Actually, I have one of Daddy’s letters from last term. It mentions the Ribbajack. Would you like to see it, Smifft?”
Archibald was in a frenzy of anticipation. “Yes, yes, get it!”
Grabbing the large manila envelope from Soames, he pulled from it several vellum sheets of B.O.C.S. crested writing paper. There was also a photograph of a British couple and an elderly Burmese gentleman standing on the verandah of a large, elegant bungalow. It had writing on the back:
Yrs truly, the memsahib, and Ghural Panjit, my interpreter. Chindwin 1935.
Yrs truly, the memsahib, and Ghural Panjit, my interpreter. Chindwin 1935.
Archibald gave the letter to Soames. “Read it out loud.” Soames steadied his voice and read the text.
My dearest Peterkin,
How are you, old chap, doing rather well at school, I hope. Mother sends her love. Sorry we cannot make it home for the hols. But chin up and keep smiling, otherwise I’ll send the Ribbajack to sort you out (ha ha, only joking of course). Bet you’ve never heard of a Ribbajack. Young chaps like you would be jolly interested in it. Let me explain.
The locals out here blame all misfortunes and deaths to it. Missing persons, and so on, it’s always the Ribbajack. I first heard of it when my interpreter, a splendid fellow named Ghural, accompanied me to settle a dispute. We travelled to a village high in the hills where it seemed a man had gone missing. Of course, everyone said it was due to the Ribbajack.
Apparently, the local carpenter had promised his daughter in marriage to a herdsman. The dispute arose when this herdsman accused the carpenter of cheating him on the dowry price of the girl, a common enough occurrence out here. Well, pretty soon after, the carpenter went missing without trace. Quite frankly, it was my considered opinion that the herdsman had killed the carpenter and done away with the body. He was a proud man, you see, and could not be seen as a laughingstock by the villagers. Ghural, and all the locals, insisted that the carpenter had been taken by a Ribbajack, so there was no point in searching for him. I was surprised at Ghural, as he is a well-educated man. It took some persuading to get him to tell me about the Ribbajack, but here’s what he said.
“Sir, if a man believes in the Ribbajack, then he can create one in his own mind, and it will come alive. If a man has a hated enemy whom he wants to be rid of, here is what he does. He makes a picture in his imagination of a monster. It is the most horrible creature he can think of, with the body of a crocodile, three eyes, long poison teeth, and other such dreadful features. The harder he concentrates, the more real his Ribbajack becomes. Then, in the darkness, one midnight hour, the creature will appear to him, as solid as you or I, sir.
“It will speak to him thus. . . .
‘From the pits of darkness in your mind,
I am Ribbajack, born out of human spite.
Say the name of the one I am brought to find,
command me to take him forever from sight.’
“From that night on, sir, the Ribbajack is never again seen, and neither is your enemy. I have heard tales, some of Ribbajacks who turned on their creators because they could not take the one whom the creator named. A Ribbajack never takes more than one victim. It is the fate of the Ribbajack, and the one it takes, to disappear from the world of men.”
Pretty scary stuff, eh, Peterkin? But your dad wasn’t about to believe all that mumbo-jumbo, and neither should you, old chap. Tell you what I did. I had the herdsman clapped in prison for five years. Then I confiscated all his cattle and had them paid to the carpenter’s family as compensation. That’s British justice for you, tempered by the local traditions, of course.
But enough of Jibbaracks, old fellow. Keep your shoulder to the wheel, and your nose to the grindstone. Make your mother and me proud of you when next we meet. Though the way things are out here, heaven knows when that will be. Ours not to reason why, etc.
Keep smiling. Toodle pip and all that.
Yr Pater.
When Soames finished reading, Archibald snatched the letter and pocketed it, snarling, “Got any more stuff about the Ribbajack?”
Soames shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid, it was only mentioned in that one letter. I say, Smifft, can I have my letter back? I keep everything my parents write. Though it’s not very much, they’re always very busy, you see.”
Archibald Smifft snarled at him, “No, you can’t, I want to read it again for myself. I’ve got work to do now, so beat it, you two.”
Wilton and Soames fled the dormitory, relieved that their ordeal was over. Soames felt lucky to have got away with just the loss of a letter, Wilton ruing the fact that he had revealed his fear of the dark. As they emerged onto the driveway, he whispered to his pal, “I say, Peterkin, it looks like Smifft is cooking something pretty horrible up, what d’you think?”
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