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,