The Ribbajack

the Ribbajack

GENTLE READER, HEED MY PLEA,

pray witness now this shocking tale,

’twas told to me by one, forsooth,

who vowed he spoke the honest truth,

he took an oath, he told no lies,

and swore it on his own three eyes!

End of Term, Summer 1937

Archibald Smifft was worse than any plague or pestilence known to man. This was the unanimous consensus of opinion by all at the boarding school of Duke Crostacious the Inviolate. Teachers, pupils, groundsmen, cooks and all ancillary staff were in total agreement on this, and who, pray, would deny their assessment?

A single glance at the boy in question would confirm the fears of even a stranger. Archibald Smifft was indeed the raw material from which nightmares were made. From the top of his scrofulous bullet-shaped head, with its jug-handle ears and ski-jump nose, the beady eyes (which had often been compared to those of an ill-tempered cobra) glaring out from the spotted moon crater of a face, right down from his rounded shoulders, pot belly and wart-scarred knees, to the fallen arches of his flat feet, the Smifft boy was the very portrait of villainy, viciousness and malicious intent.

He had been abandoned as a baby on the school driveway, sitting smugly in an outrageously expensive bassinet. In one hand the child clutched a chamois bag containing a king’s ransom in uncut rubies; in the other, a recently dead frog. Attached to his satin pillow was a note: “Deer sur. Pleez giv Archibald a gud ejercayshun an bring him up propper. Maw roobeez to folloh. Singed, X Smifft. Pee yess. He lykes byting thingz.”

The headmaster, a gentle, trusting man named Aubrey Plother, I.O.U.E. (Institute of Unskilled Educators), and the matron, Mrs. Twogg, were the two who found the infant. Trying hard to avoid Archibald’s malevolent smirk, Mr. Plother’s heart softened. He snatched the bag of rubies, declaring charitably, “Mrs. Twogg, marm, I feel we would be neglecting our Christian duty were we not to adopt and care for this unfortunate waif. I have decided he shall receive the benefits of a thorough education here at my establishment!”

The matron, who had left her glasses indoors and would never admit she had dreadful eyesight, swept the babe up in her huge pink arms. She tickled its bottom lip fondly. “Oh, bless you for the kindly soul you are, Headmaster. Poor little mite, shame on the one who abandoned you. Coochy-cooch, my little cherub!”

The infant left off chewing his frog long enough to inflict a bite on Mrs. Twogg’s index finger that a tiger shark would have envied. The matron wore her glasses at all times after that afternoon so that she would be able to immediately decipher further communications left on the pillows of abandoned children. That is how Archibald Smifft came to be inflicted on his present school.

For my more gentle and nervous readers, I will draw a veil over the intervening eleven years. Except to mention, in passing, four teachers’ resignations (diagnosed as mentally traumatised), an explosion in the pupils’ chemistry laboratory, the disappearance of four cats belonging to the gardener’s wife, several major floods in the washrooms, a fire which destroyed the sports pavilion and a school mastiff that vanished without trace. These, and a host of other indignities, atrocities and miscellaneous mishaps—students absconding to foreign territories, etc.—were all in one way or another attributable to said Archibald Smifft. However, the headmaster’s kind heart, plus the prompt arrival each term of a bag containing rubies by special delivery to Aubrey Plother, I.O.U.E., insured the boy’s continuance at Crostacious the Inviolate Boarding School for young gentlemen. Granted, there were frequent staff walkouts, but the headmaster furthered his name as a good man by rewarding injured, faithful and long-serving staff members by giving them a ruby apiece as an annual incentive.

Archibald’s dormitory was a long, draughty room. It contained only two boys besides himself. Wilton Minor and Peterkin Soames were far too frightened to cut and run like the others—they lived in constant terror of their small but vengeful roommate. Together each night, the wretched pair huddled on their beds at the room’s far end, constantly casting fearful glances at Archibald’s den. This was a high screen of assorted rubbish which he had coerced them into building at the other end of the dormitory. Wilton and Soames both had families posted overseas in the military and colonial services. As a result, they were permanent boarders, spending all holidays, vacations and non-term times on the school premises, with Archibald Smifft for company. He delighted in terrorising the hapless duo, each day bringing fresh horrors for Wilton and Soames. Wilton Minor, the more delicate of the two, had found grey hairs whilst parting his hair on his eleventh birthday! Both boys had a wan-faced, hunted look about them.

One day close to the summer term break, all the pupils were taken on an educational trip to a local dairy farm. Everybody, even Archibald, was required to go. This provided the headmaster and matron with a golden opportunity to inspect the Smifft dormitory. They were forced into this task frequently. The area occupied by Archibald was a place where any intruder had to tread with extreme caution. It was a task which Mr. Plother and Mrs. Twogg did not relish. However, if the dormitory where the Smifft boy laid his scheming little head to rest each night went unchecked, the possible consequences could prove both horrendous and dire.

Filled with trepidation, the pair made their way upstairs. The headmaster was armed with a pair of fire-side tongs, some stout leathern gauntlets and a golf club. Mrs. Twogg carried a furled umbrella, a bottle of strong disinfectant, a sharp knitting needle and a flashlight.

A notice was posted on the dormitory door, pinned to the tail of a rat skeleton.

KEEYP OWT WEN A. SMIFFT IZ NOT HEER.

YOO HAV BEAN WORNED!

Being a more regular visitor to boys’ dormitories than her superior, the matron placed herself in front, reas surring him, “Stand back, Headmaster, I’ll deal with this!”

Keeping her distance, the intrepid lady took a fencing stance, then lunged, giving the door a sharp push with her brolly tip. The customary avalanche of flour, soot, glue and sour milk thundered down as the booby-trapped door swung inward.

The headmaster’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his golf club. “Capital work, Matron, you’re an absolute brick!”

He ventured forward, but Mrs. Twogg thrust him aside with a cry. “Wait!” With a neat twist of her knitting needle, she snapped the almost invisible length of black cotton which was stretched across the threshold.

Zzzzzip thunk!

A lethal-looking spear stood quivering in the door-post at neck height. She studied it and identified the weapon.

“Hmm, Jivaro headhunting spear, probably tipped with some kind of poison. Curare, I suspect. Don’t touch it, Headmaster.”

Shaking his head, Aubrey Plother entered the room. “That’s odd. Smifft got an F minus in geography and chemistry last term.”

Mrs. Twogg gave the headmaster another shove, which sent him skittering in a semicircle. “Don’t step on that floorboard—as I recall, that’s the one with the steel-jawed foxtrap beneath it!”

Mr. Plother stepped gingerly around the offending timber. “A revelation indeed, Matron. Smifft showed no interest in either carpentry or nature study. Hmm, resourceful boy, eh?”

Mrs. Twogg narrowed her eyes. “Right, let’s see what holds the little villain’s attention these days, Headmaster.”

Their search brought forward the usual stuff. Some detonators, various stink bombs, a complete flea circus and an inflatable rubber cushion capable of producing a variety of extremely rude noises. Mrs. Twogg surveyed the haul. “Nothing of any great note here. Anything under there, Headmaster?”

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?”

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!”

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.

“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!”

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.

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?”

Soames thrust both hands into his blazer pockets. “Rather, he’s up to some wickedness, I’m sure. I don’t like it one little bit. One thing’s certain, though, we can’t be left alone in that dorm with Smifft for almost two months’ summer hols. How much money have you got, chum?”

Wilton frowned. “In my money box there’s two fivers from my parents last Christmas. What do we need money for?”

Soames did some quick calculating. “I’ve got six pounds from my people last birthday, and a ten-bob note left from my allowance. What d’you say we go and stay at my aunt Adelaide’s place for the recess? It’s up in Yorkshire, at Harrogate. Come on, let’s take a walk down to the post office, I’ll give her a ring.” He broke into a trot. Wilton ran to keep up with him.

“What about me, d’you think she’ll mind terribly?”

His friend chuckled. “What, Aunt Addie? Not a bit, old man. She’s half deaf and totally nutty. Lives alone, except for a cook and gardener, in a great rambling place up by the moors. She’s got loads of cats, and keeps geese, too. We’ll be safe from Smifft up there for the summer. Are you game?”

Wilton felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his young heart. “Rather! Lead on, old chap, I’d sooner be marooned on the ocean in a bathtub than be stuck with that bounder Smifft for the hols!”

Less than an hour later, both boys skipped blithely out of the telephone box. Soames rubbed his hands together joyfully.

“Here we are, all set to go. There’s a train for Harrogate at seven-ten this evening, should get us in about ten. Aunt Addie is sending old Jenkins the gardener to pick us up in the car. All we’ve got to do is pack a case each. The dreaded Smifft shouldn’t even notice we’re gone, you know how he is when he’s swotting up a foul new scheme. Come on, race you back!”

The school chaplain of Duke Crostacious the Inviolate was Reverend Rodney Miller, a bluff, hearty old fellow. He was known by several nicknames: the Sky Pilot, Big Dusty, Rev, or the Padre. This was owing to his long service with the King’s Lancashire Rifle Regiment. He had spent many years in India, Burma and Bhutan as Padre to the soldiers. Rev. Miller stood well over six feet tall, a portly, congenial figure with a fiery complexion and white bushy eyebrows. He had an extensive fund of stories about life in the far-flung outposts of empire—it had been said that he could bore the legs off a table with them.

Rev. Miller sat in the headmaster’s study, taking tea with Mrs. Twogg and Mr. Plother. Helping himself to slices of Dundee cake and Bath Oliver biscuits, washed down with copius amounts of Darjeeling tea, he listened to them holding forth on the subject of Archibald Smifft—the boy’s unhealthy fascination with occult magic and the forbidden arts. The matron explained about the materials they had discovered beneath the bed and the possible atrocities Smifft could wreak upon both them and the school. The headmaster recounted the incident of the cockroaches and flies. Rev. Miller sucked the chocolate from a Bath Oliver, and dunked it in his tea reflectively.

“Ah, yes, the old jiggery pokery, y’know. Saw quite a bit of it for m’self out on the subcontinent, India and all that. By Jove, watched a chap climb up a rope and vanish into thin air. Amazing! Where the dickens he went to, I’ll never know. Another time I saw a fakir take a pair of live scorpions—d’you know what he did with ’em, eh?”

The matron poured more tea, remarking primly, “I’m sure we’d shudder to think, Reverend. However, this isn’t getting us anywhere with the Smifft problem, don’t you agree, Headmaster?”

Mr. Plother blinked over the rim of his Crown Derby teacup. “Er, precisely, Mrs. Twogg, the boy is definitely involved in some murky matters. I mean, how d’you explain a cloud of flies swarming around my head, Padre?”

The chaplain picked a few crumbs from his ample stomach. “Huh, flies, y’say, I could do that. Slap a dab of honey on my head. Flies’d flock to it. A few wasps and a bee or two, as well, I should imagine, eh?”

The matron pursed her lips. “Really, Reverend, I don’t consider this a fit subject for humour. You have been invited here to give assistance in what we think is a serious matter!”

Rev. Miller heaved himself out of the creaking armchair. He sighed regretfully at the empty cake stand. “Right you are, marm, suppose I’d better go and have a few words with the young scamp. What’s the chap’s name, Smithers?”

Mrs. Twogg’s chins wobbled as she snapped out the name. “Smifft. Archibald Smifft. You remember him from Christmas term, surely!”

The chaplain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Good Lord, that fellow? Wasn’t he the rogue who sabotaged my incense burner with stink bombs at the chapel service? Short, grubby cove, with his eyes too close together? Never liked boys with close-together eyes, y’know. Reminds me of a gunnery corporal I served with at Hyderabad, furtive little blighter. Caught him one time in the officers’ mess, had half a bottle of Madeira and some vindaloo curry powder. You’ll never guess what the scallywag was up to—”

The matron interrupted him abruptly. “Smifft!”

Rev. Miller recalled his errand. “Eh, what? Oh, yes, I’ll go and have a talk with Master Smithers. No time like the present!”

Archibald Smifft lay flat on his bed, exerting all his mental powers to produce an image of how a Ribbajack might look. He ignored the muffled rummaging of Wilton and Soames on the other side of his barricade, for they could be dealt with later. His Ribbajack was all-important. The description penned by Soames’s father sounded fairly good. But Archibald had decided it needed some adjustments to suit his macabre taste. A crocodile’s body, he would keep that feature. Three eyes? No, his would have just one big eye, a disgusting red runny one. Then there was the question of the arms. What if they were long, right down to its feet, hairy like a gorilla’s, and studded with suckers, similar to an octopus’s tentacles? The long, sharp teeth sounded a bit humdrum. Suppose it had a feathered head and a great hooked parrot beak, which could rip and tear and chop? Perfect! It would be his own personal and original Ribbajack.

Archibald’s train of thought was broken by someone knocking on the door outside his den. He attempted to dismiss it at this crucial stage of his image-making. However, it was not about to cease, in fact the knocking doubled in volume and insistence, then a voice.

“Come on, young man, I know you’re in there. Met two of your pals on the corridor below on their way out, they told me. Listen, Smithers, if you don’t open this door pretty sharply, I’ll bring my old service pistol and blow the lock off. D’you hear me, Smithers?”

Rev. Miller put his ear to the door just as it opened. He practically fell in on top of a scowling, ill-tempered boy. (This would have solved the problem neatly, as the Rev. weighed in at somewhere around two and a half hundred pounds. What a lark! Man of the cloth flattens young schoolboy by accident.) Smiling at the thought, the chaplain took the jovial approach. He winked com panionably at the irate boy. “What ho, young Smithers, come to have a friendly word with you. At the headmaster’s and matron’s request, of course. Well, aren’t you going to ask the old Sky Pilot in, eh?”

Stiff-legged, Archibald backed off to sit on his bed. “Name’s Smifft, not Smithers. Can’t stop you coming in if you want to.”

Striding into the den, the chaplain planted himself firmly on the bedside chair. “Ah, that’s more the ticket!”

Archibald glared murderously at the big, portly man. “No, it’s not, you’ve just sat on Jasper and squashed him.”

Rev. Miller rose in alarm. “Jasper, who’s Jasper?”

Archibald craned his head to view the seat of the chaplain’s trousers. “Jasper was my best lizard, I’ve had him all term. Now you’ve killed him with your big, fat bottom.”

Taking his handkerchief and a nearby English textbook, Rev. Miller brushed the flattened remains of Jasper onto the floor. “My dear boy, forgive me. I’m most dreadfully sorry. Poor Jasper, I’ll put him in the wastepaper basket.”

Jumping from the bed, Archibald gathered up the dead lizard. He shot the chaplain a glare that would have wilted a nettle. “I’ll keep him for my spells. Tongue, skin or tail of lizard always comes in useful. Not many lizards about lately.”

The chaplain looked on as the boy deposited Jasper’s carcass in a jar, and wrote on the label. “Spells, eh? Jolly old magic ones, I’ll bet, eh?”

Archibald stowed the jar beneath his bed. “Mind your own business, my spells are private.”

Chuckling, the Rev bent his head, trying to peer under the bed. “What are you keeping under here, m’lad? Lots of icky schoolboy stuff probably. Boiled tadpoles, fried worms and whatnot. Hohoho, you young rip!”

His jollity was cut short by a grubby, black-nailed finger waving threateningly under his nose. “Listen, fattie, make yourself scarce before I get mad!”

Rev. Miller had dealt with toughened soldiers in the past. He was not about to be intimidated by a snotty-nosed boy. “Now see here, Smithers, don’t you dare take that tone with me. Show a bit of respect for your school chaplain, m’boy!”

Archibald’s lip curled scornfully. “Respect? Get out of my dormitory, you old windbag. Go on, beat it, or I’ll make you sorry you ever came in here!”

Rev. Miller stood up, then he stooped until their eyes met. “Will you indeed? I suppose you’ll surround my head with flies, or slip a few cockroaches into my pocket, eh? Oh, don’t worry, m’lad, I’ve heard all about what you did to the matron and the headmaster. That nonsense won’t work with me!”

Archibald Smifft went pale with rage. “Yes, it will! I can make a big wasp sting you right on the end of your stupid nose. I can, you know!”

The chaplain’s roar made the boy start with fright. “You spotty little cur, go on then, do your worst. But let me warn you, Smithers. If you do, I’ll seize you and chuck you into the school lily pond, and all that gobbledygook from under your bed, too. Understood?”

Archibald sneered. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Grabbing the boy by his collars, the big man lifted him bodily and gave him a firm shaking. “You snotty little upstart, one more word out of you and I won’t be responsible for my actions!”

It was the first time anyone had ever laid hands on Archibald. He squealed like a rat. Suddenly, he was afraid of the big old man. He began to whimper pathetically. “You’re hurting me, put me down, please, sir!”

Rev. Miller dropped him onto the bed, nodding affably. “That’s more like it, old chap. Now listen carefully. I’ll return here after supper tomorrow evening. I want to see all that rubbish gone from under your bed. Also, I’d like to see a complete change in your attitude, Smithers. If not, you’ll be taking a rather uncomfortable bath in the lily pond. Now, do I make myself clear?”

Avoiding the chaplain’s eyes, Archibald stared at the bedspread, sniffing meekly. “Yes, sir.”

Rev. Miller smiled. He patted the boy’s head gently. “Good man. Now, let’s have our little talk, shall we.”

For the next half hour, Archibald was forced to sit and listen to the chaplain. He lectured on and on about playing the game, being a decent chap and making Crostacious’s school proud of him. Archibald took it all in a subdued manner, nodding agreement with all the Rev’s advice as he droned on about the dangers of evil intent, warning about casting spells and meddling in the darker side of nature.

Rev. Miller ended his discourse by saying, “There are powers beyond your knowledge, m’boy. If you were to continue as you’re going, it would all backfire on you someday. Where’d you be then, eh? Cheer up, Smithers, old lad. See you at seven tomorrow. Good-bye!”

Archibald sat listening until the chaplain’s heavy, plodding footsteps receded below stairs. A slow smile stole across his spotty face, growing into a maniacal grin. Leaping up, he went into a frenzied dance around the room, his eyes glittering with villainous delight. He had just found a victim for the Ribbajack he was intent on conjuring. Old Reverend Dusty Miller, the Sky Pilot! Revengeful spite and pent-up malice poured from him like sewage squirting from a cracked cess tank. When he first heard of the Ribbajack, all he desired was to see what it looked like. Now he had a definite aim for the horror he was about to create. The removal of his newfound enemy! The moment that dog-collared old buffoon had mispronounced his name, Archibald Smifft knew the chaplain was going to be the first victim of the monster. Putting pen to paper, he began composing a verse as an aid to materialising his own personal Ribbajack.

O nightmare beyond all dreaming,

Dark Lord of the single eye,

before tomorrow’s light of dawn,

make the chaplain bid life good-bye.

Come serve me to conquer all enemies,

I command that you grant me this gift,

let the world fear the wrath of my Ribbajack,

and his master, Archibald Smifft!

Golden noontide sunlight flooded through the dormitory windows, the silence broken only by Archibald repeating his lines in a singsong monotone. He lay rigid on the bed, both fists pressed against his tightly closed eyes, striving to visualise his horrific creature. If there was such a thing as the Ribbajack, he would be the one to endow it with life. He was no Burmese cattle herder. No, he was Archibald Smifft. He would master the monster and bend it to his will. Rev. Miller would be only the first victim—others would follow. He would gain the power to make his Ribbajack serve him forever!

From far away, a voice entered his consciousness, distant at first, but growing to a bloodcurdling rumble.

“Master?”

Cold sweat beaded his pimpled brow; his hair stood up on end. There it was again, louder this time, clearer.

“Master! Maaaassssteeeerrr?”

From some primeval mental swamp he envisioned two gargantuan, clawlike hands materialising. They scrambled on the edge of dream-shrouded mist, then took hold and heaved. Huge serpentine arms swathed in hair and octopoid suckers emerged. A single blood-shot eye appeared, questing about frenziedly. Echoing like an organ in some satanic temple, the voice called again. “Maaaaassssssteeeeerrrrr!”

Archibald Smifft’s entire body shook until the bed rattled. He had done it, his Ribbajack was alive!

Rev. Miller slurped the last of his Brown Windsor soup. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he announced confidently to the headmaster and matron, “I gave that young curmudgeon a piece of my mind, indeed I did! That’ll teach Smithers not to dally lightly with the old Sky Pilot, eh? Magic and spells? Poppycock and humbug, if you ask me!”

Mr. Plother had already heard the chaplain’s account three times. He splodged mayonnaise onto his veal and ham pie salad with renewed appetite. “I’m sure you dealt succinctly with the matter, Padre.”

Mrs. Twogg buttered a slice of whole-meal bread. “Indeed, let’s hope you’ve put an end to the whole unsavoury episode, Reverend. Would you pass the claret, please.”

Rev. Miller topped up his own glass before relinquishing the wine. He began reminiscing about a similar affair involving a young subaltern in Jodhpur when the phone broke in on his narrative. The headmaster arose from his chair. “Excuse me for a moment, please.”

He conversed for several moments with the caller, then replaced the receiver with an irritable sigh. “Would you believe it? Two of our boys have recently boarded a train to Yorkshire—Harrogate in fact!”

The matron looked up from her salad. “Oh, dear, which two?”

Aubrey Plother tapped his chin thoughtfully. “All the pupils were gone by four this afternoon—there’s only three remaining, Smifft, Soames and Wilton. Did you happen to see them around the dormitory, Padre?”

Rev. Miller blinked vaguely. “Afraid not, really. Ah, wait, though, I did spot two young coves before I went up there. Carrying suitcases they were, furtive, pale-faced boys.”

Mrs. Twogg nodded knowingly. “That’ll be Wilton and Soames.”

Mr. Plother looked bewildered. “But they never applied to go home, both their parents are overseas. Where do you suppose they’ve gone?”

The matron stood up decisively. “We shall have to bring them back before any harm befalls them. Next train to Harrogate for us, Headmaster!”

The headmaster picked up the phone. “I’d best telephone the Harrogate Police and instruct them to hold the boys at the station until we arrive. Most inconsiderate and thoughtless of Soames and Wilton. Goodness knows what time we’ll get back here with them.”

Rev. Miller retrieved the claret and poured himself more. “Next train to Harrogate’s at nine-fifteen, you won’t get back tonight. Book rooms for yourselves and the boys at the Station Hotel. You can catch the early-morning milk train tomorrow, that’ll get you back here for breakfast. Don’t worry about me, I’ll hold the fort here. Trains, eh, I remember back in ’twenty-eight, or was it ’twenty-seven? Old Biffo Boulton and I had to catch a train from Poonah junction. Confounded unreliable, the trains out there. Anyhow, Biffo and I had been out on a tiger hunt that same day, so we still had our guns with us, good job, really—”

The matron cut in on his story abruptly. “You’ll have to excuse us, Reverend, we have a train to catch!”

The chaplain raised his glass, announcing to the empty room as the door slammed behind the pair, “What, er, by all means, you two toddle off now. By Jove, old Biffo was a card, y’know, did I tell you he had a wooden leg?”

Rev. Miller continued, unperturbed, recounting tales of himself and old Biffo in India.

Out in the quadrangle, the clock chimed 11:45 P.M. Pale shafts of moonlight replaced the day’s sunrays in the dormitory windows. Archibald had not moved from his bed. He lay there, filled with an awful rapture, seeing the thing that his mind had given birth to. The Ribbajack surpassed anything that a sane, normal person could devise. Archibald Smifft had long passed the states of sanity, or normality.

The monster had curving horns sprouting from its massive blue-feathered head. A single saucer-sized eye dripped noxious fluid, glaring from above a great hooked beak. The loathsome torso, merging from its feathered neck, was coated in dirty yellow crocodile scales, right down to a pair of three-taloned feet. At either end of two long, hairy, suckered arms, the thing’s lethal hands clenched and writhed, searching for something to latch on to. Its beak clashed like a steel trap as it shambled about. Archibald Smifft shuddered in villainous ecstasy as he mouthed in his sleep, “My Ribbajack! Come to your master, Ribbajack!”

As the quadrangle clock struck midnight, a bulky object hitting the floor woke Archibald. Wiping freezing sweat from his eyes, he sat upright, peering at the monstrous beast. It crouched in a patch of moonlight beside his bed, revealed in all its hideous reality.

When he could find his voice, Archibald addressed the thing. “Ribbajack, are you really here?”

Fixing him with its ghastly eye, the monster rumbled:

“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 forever to take him from sight!”

It stood waiting on Archibald’s word, swaying from side to side, clacking its beak and clenching its talons. The dreadful eye never strayed from him. Archibald stared back at the Ribbajack, his confidence returning. After all, the thing was his creation, and here it was, standing, awaiting his command like a giant dog. What did he have to fear? Sliding from the bed, he confronted it boldly, speaking aloud:

“O nightmare beyond all dreaming,

Dark Lord of the single eye,

before tomorrow’s light of dawn,

make the chaplain bid life good-bye.

Come serve me to conquer all enemies,

I command that you grant me this gift,

let the world fear the wrath of my Ribbajack,

and his master, Archibald Smifft!”

Without further exchange of words, the Ribbajack bounded swiftly from the dormitory, leaving Archibald alone in his den. Climbing back into bed, he smiled blissfully (a very rare thing for the terror of Duke Crostacious’s school). Exhausted by his strenuous mental efforts, Archibald fell into a deep sleep.

At nine-fifteen on the following morn, the train from Harrogate puffed into the station. Mr. Plother and Mrs. Twogg emerged onto the platform, minus the two boys they had gone to fetch back. Tipping his cap to them, the stationmaster enquired, “What happened, sir, did the two lads give the police the slip at Harrogate?”

The headmaster replied wearily, “Not really. It appears they went off to visit Soames’s aunt, quite unofficially, of course. There wasn’t a great deal we could do about it. I gave them a stern piece of my mind about giving prior notice of absence. But boys will be boys, I suppose. Apart from a wasted journey, there’s no great harm done. Young Soames’s aunt was very hospitable. She put the matron and myself up for the night, gave us a first-class breakfast, too. Her man drove us back to the station this morning, in time for the early train.”

It was not a long walk back to school. The matron strode out energetically, stretching her legs after the train ride. Mr. Plother gave a halfhearted hop-skip, trying to keep up with her. Mrs. Twogg breathed deeply.

“Ah! What a glorious day, Headmaster, not a cloud in the sky and dew still on the hedgerows. Hark, is that a lark ascending over the meadows?”

Mr. Plother’s ingrown toenail was bothering him, but he tried to get into the spirit of things. “I believe it is, Matron, Alauda arvensis, the common skylark. Well, marm, our troubles are over. Perhaps that lark is the herald of a long, peaceful summer. The old school lies empty, boys all away until autumn term, and the Padre has solved our Smifft problem. What more could we ask for?”

The matron answered promptly. “A nice cup of tea, Headmaster. I do hope the Reverend has the kettle boiling when we get back to your study.”

On entering the school, the matron waved cheerily to the cleaning lady, who was busy mopping the entrance hall. “Good morning, Mrs. McDonald, do I smell the aroma of our chaplain brewing tea in the headmaster’s study?”

The cleaner paused, leaning on her mop. “Rev. Miller ain’t up out o’ bed yet, Matron. I took a cuppa me own tea up t’the poor man earlier. I s’pect it’s a touch of the malaria from ’is service out in India. All manner of h’ailments a body could catch out there, they say. You wouldn’t catch me goin’ to foreign parts. Margate’ll do nicely for me, thank you.”

Mr. Plother stayed the matron’s progress for the stairs. “I’ll pop up and take a look at the Padre. You know how he hates ladies fussing about after him. Stay down here and have a cup of tea with Mrs. McDonald.”

Mr. Plother’s hesitant tap on the chaplain’s door was answered by a booming voice. “Enter!” Rev. Miller was sitting up in bed, looking rather flushed. The top of his nightshirt was torn, with three buttons missing. The headmaster smiled encouragingly.

“Just back from Harrogate. The two boys are staying with an aunt, no cause for alarm. Mrs. McDonald said you weren’t feeling quite up to the mark, old chap. How d’you feel now, better?”

Rev. Miller snorted. “Confounded busybody, that lady. There’s not a thing wrong with me. Bit of a bad dream last night, nothing more. Huh, veal’n’ham pie, and two large glasses of claret before bedtime—self-inflicted injury, as they say in the army. Feeling right as rain now, though, eh!”

Mr. Plother made the error of pursuing the subject. “Bad dream . . . perhaps you had a nightmare, Padre?”

One person was all the chaplain required as an audience. “Nightmare? Well, judge for y’self, sir. Let me tell you about it. I went to bed about eleven, never had any trouble sleeping, went off like a top. Don’t know what woke me, in fact I don’t know whether I was really awake—jolly strange things, dreams. Anyhow, I felt a definite presence in the room. One doesn’t spend all those years in the military and not know about these things, y’know. I almost sat up straight, don’t know what possessed me, but I couldn’t cry out at the creature.”

The headmaster shifted his gaze from a pair of Ghurka Kukri knives crossed over the mantelpiece. “You saw a creature, here, in your room?”

Knowing he had intrigued his listener, the Rev dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Oh, yes, indeed I did, sir. Great hulking shuffling thing, standing there in the moonlight. The blighter looked like a crocodile standing upright. Had long arms, like a gorilla, with suckers growing on them. It was glaring right at me from one big eye, had a head of feathers and a big, ugly parrot’s beak. What d’you think of that?”

A smile formed on the headmaster’s lips. “Really, Padre, and how many glasses of claret did you have before retiring last night?”

The Rev’s wattled neck quivered indignantly. “I resent that implication, sir. Two glasses is my limit, always is, and always has been, since I resigned my commission. How dare you insinuate that I was under the influence!”

Aubrey Plother, I.O.U.E., held up an apologetic hand. “Forgive me, Padre, it was a thoughtless remark. But what was this monstrous thing you saw?”

The chaplain nodded knowingly. “A Jibberack, or a Jabberwok. I don’t recall the exact name they had for it out in Burma, but I recognised the beastie right away. I’ll have to go back a few decades to explain myself, so I hope you’ll bear with me, Headmaster.”

Good manners dictated that Mr. Plother could not refuse. That, and the fact that he was becoming interested in the tale. “By all means, Padre, carry on, please do.”

Rev. Miller continued his narrative. “Many years ago I was Padre to a garrison in Burma, stationed in the Paktai Hills. One day I had occasion to save a chap’s life, Burmese fellow. It was in the floods of ’twenty-three, as I recall. I was younger and fitter then, y’know. Heard villagers wailing and shouting down by the river, so I went to investigate. Saw this poor blighter being swept away, half drowned by the floodwaters. Of course, chap like me, never stopped t’think. Dived right in, swam out, grabbed the man and dragged him bank to the bank. His name was Arif—splendid old boy, as it turned out. Anyhow, after that Arif became my man, wasn’t nothing he wouldn’t do for me, looked after me like a mogul emperor. We became the closest of chums, he was like a brother to me. When my term was served and I was due to return to England, poor Arif, he looked like a lost dog. I was pretty sad, too. We both knew it was the last we would see of each other.

“So there I was, waiting at the station for the coastal troop train back to Blighty. We exchanged gifts to remember one another by. I gave Arif my own personal morocco-bound Bible—wrote in the flyleaf for him, too. Arif had a medal which he always wore about his neck. He took it off and hung it around my neck. It was solid silver with a star and some ancient script engraved upon it. I was deeply touched, and asked him what it was. ‘Tuan Dusty,’ he said—that’s what Arif always called me. ‘Tuan Dusty, this is a most powerful and ancient charm. It was given to me by a very holy man. The medal will ward off the evil of a Ribbajack, and protect you from it.’ ”

Mr. Plother repeated the curious-sounding word. “Ribbajack?”

Rev. Miller’s bushy eyebrows rose. “By Jove, I remembered it. Ribbajack, that’s what they called it out there. Actually, it was a trifle embarrassing, a Church of England minister wearing some Burmese religious talisman around his neck. But be that as it may, I wore it to mark my friendship with Arif, I was proud to. I’m not ashamed to say that I still wear it to this day, see?”

Fishing inside the collar of his nightgown, the Rev drew forth Arif’s medal. It was hung on braided elephant hair and looked exactly as he had described it. Rev. Miller stared out the window at the soft English summer morning, so far from Burma all those years ago. “I’ll never forget old Arif, never!”

Mr. Plother inspected the medallion closely. “Tell me, Padre, what exactly is a Ribbajack?”

The chaplain looked surprised. “You’ve never heard of a Ribbajack? Dearie me, I’ll have to complete your education, sir. Out in the Paktai Hill country, the Ribbajack was a terrifying legend. It’s a monster, an ogre, a thing of immense evil, created in a person’s mind. If you hate an enemy enough, they say that you can give birth to the Ribbajack from your own imagination. Once it is clear enough inside your head, one midnight hour, your Ribbajack will come alive and destroy the person you name.”

Mr. Plother was aghast at the idea. “Good grief, Padre! Do you mean that a monster could be devised by the human brain which could actually take shape and commit murder?”

The medallion gleamed in the sunlight as Rev. Miller fingered it. “I do, Headmaster, and the more evil the mind of its creator, the more loathsome and fearful the Ribbajack will appear. Once its maker names the victim, the Ribbajack goes off and does his bidding. They say that when the deed is done, neither the creature nor its prey is ever seen again.”

The headmaster’s eyes were riveted on the speaker. “And you say you saw a Ribbajack here in this room last night. Were you its intended victim, Padre?”

Rev. Miller nodded slowly. “I must have been, because the thing went for me. It lurched forward, beak clacking, huge arms waving, staring right at me with that terrible eye. I was so helpless, the beast actually ripped my nightshirt open with its talons. Then it screeched and leaped back. I could see my medal had burned its arm. I don’t mind telling you, I was in an absolute blue funk, gibbering prayers, pleas, anything that came to my lips. I was thrown back onto the pillows by some unknown force, the smell of burning flesh in my nostrils. Must have blacked out completely then. When I woke, the Ribbajack was gone. I was alone again, thank the Lord.”

Mr. Plother added, “And thank that medal your Burmese friend gave you, eh? But who would want to send a Ribbajack to you?”

Both men stared at one another, the truth dawning simultaneously. “Archibald Smifft!”

Hastily donning his clothes over his nightshirt, Rev. Miller warned the headmaster, “Let’s go and confront the little brute. Not a word to the matron, or the cleaning ladies. Don’t want them getting upset, do we. Mum’s the word, old chap!”

Luckily, the matron was sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. McDonald and her two helpers. The two men had no difficulty in slipping upstairs to the dormitory. There was neither sight nor sound of human or non-human presence. Archibald Smifft’s bedsheets lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, but other than that, there was no sign of disturbance. Mr. Plother sat down on the bed.

“Well, Padre, what’s our next move?”

Rev. Miller shrugged, and sat down beside him. “Not a great deal we can do, really. There’s no known parents we can contact. Maybe Smithers went off like the other two boys. He might’ve had a relative that we didn’t know about. I suppose we could contact the authorities, eh?”

Mr. Plother shook his head decisively. “We’d have the school besieged by police, press and radio reporters. That wouldn’t do the good name of this place any favours. Parents would start withdrawing their boys. It might even end with us having to close Duke Crostacious’s.”

The Rev pondered his friend’s statement. “Hmm, see what you mean. I say, d’you really want to see that young blight Smithers back here, Headmaster?”

Mr. Plother answered without hesitation. “I’d sooner have the bubonic plague, actually. A day without Archibald Smifft is a day of sheer bliss!”

“I second that, Headmaster!” They looked up to see the matron framed in the doorway. She strode in briskly. “I can keep quiet if you two can. We’ll maintain the status quo, as if Smifft had never been here. Dreadful boy, I could never sleep easy at night knowing he was within a mile. Now gentlemen, to business. Headmaster, you and I will demolish this den of iniquity and dispose of it. Reverend, would you be so kind as to remove those foul decoctions from beneath the bed and empty them down the toilet. Let’s get back to being an English boarding school for young gentlemen!”

Rev. Miller chuckled. “Bravo, Mrs. Twogg!”

The headmaster polished his glasses carefully, pausing before he spoke. “Er, well said, Matron. Yes, jolly well said!”

A month into the autumn term, all three were ensconced in the headmaster’s study. Mrs. Twogg was pouring the Darjeeling tea. Rev. Miller passed the buttered crumpets and Chorley cakes around.

Mr. Plother gazed out the window at the trees shedding leaves of brown and gold. He sighed contentedly. “Autumn, my friends. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.”

Mrs. Twogg dropped four lumps of sugar into her teacup. “Nothing like elevenses on a calm October day, don’t you agree, Reverend?”

Rev. Miller slathered extra butter onto his crumpet. “A serenely Smitherless season, marm!”

The matron shot him a warning glance. “Don’t even mispronounce that name. Remember our agreement?”

A hearty knock sounded on the study door. Rev’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Hello, who’s that?”

Mr. Plother called out, “Enter!”

Soames and Wilton marched in. There was a marked change in both boys. They looked healthier and happier. Young Wilton had actually put on a bit of weight. Soames had a confident, carefree air about him. He held up the jar of newts he was carrying. “Look, sir, we’ve been out on a nature ramble. Wilton and I caught these between us, aren’t they beauties?”

The headmaster inspected the small amphibians. “Excellent work, you two. Perhaps you’d like to get some pondweed and ferns, a few nice stones, too. They’ll look rather handsome in the tank on our nature table. Here, take a Chorley cake each, you chaps!”

The boys helped themselves gratefully. Wilton placed two parcels and an envelope on the table. “We met the postman in the lane, sir. He asked us to bring you the mail. Sir, could we ask you something?”

Mr. Plother sorted out the mail. Both he and the matron had a parcel, the letter was for Rev. Miller. “By all means, Wilton, how can I help?”

The boy looked rather apprehensive. “Sir, is Archibald Smifft coming back?”

Mr. Plother looked over his spectacles. “Highly unlikely I’d say, young man. Madagascar is quite a long way off. I don’t imagine Smifft could take a bus from there. You run along now, and don’t bother your head about him.”

Soames pursued the question. “Who did he get to take him, sir? Smifft always told us that he had no family. Did someone claim him?”

Rev. Miller stifled a smile. “Oh, someone claimed him, sure enough, m’boy. Actually it was an uncle, twice removed on his mother’s side. He’s a missionary in Madagascar. I wouldn’t doubt he’s training the lad up to be a curate or something.”

Peterkin Soames snorted. “Steady on, sir, that evil bullying toad, a curate? Fat chance, I’d say!”

The matron eyed him disapprovingly. “It does not behove us to speak ill of others. Be a little more charitable to your fellow creatures, Peterkin. Go on now, off with you both!”

Looking suitably chastened, both boys left the study. Rev. Miller heard them giggling as they ran downstairs. “Young scamps. Boys will be boys, eh? What’s in your parcel, Matron, anything good to eat?”

Mrs. Twogg tore the parcel open. “You wouldn’t like the taste of this. It’s a powder spray, repels all sorts of insects, especially cockroaches. Did you receive anything interesting, Headmaster?”

Mr. Plother opened the cardboard box, drawing forth a chamois drawstring bag, which he weighed in one hand. “Silence is golden, Matron. This is another bag of rubies. I suspect our joint security lockers in the Swiss Bank must be looking quite healthy by now. As you said, Padre, mum’s the word. Is that a letter from your Old Comrades Association?”

Rev. Miller was scanning the missive with great interest. “Listen to this. I took a rubbing of the medallion Arif gave me. Sent it for translation to a bod I know in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Here’s what was written on my medal.

“Touch not the wearer of this charm,

or thou wilt court disaster.

O Ribbajack, return forthwith,

seek out thy evil master.

He whose mind first gave thee birth,

this night must vanish from the earth!”

Rev. Miller put down the letter. He went to gaze out of the window. “Thank you, Arif, my old friend.”