“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.”