Brian Jacques - The 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.