Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

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.