The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales

by Brian Jacques

  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 b
e 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.”

  A Smile and a Wave

  SMILES AND WAVES ARE GIVEN FREE.

  They take but a moment or so,

  from me to you, from you to me,

  either good-bye or hello.

  So bear with me, my little friend,

  this story you may know,

  but if perchance you’ve guessed the end,

  just smile, and wave, and go....

  It was not as if Maggie liked the coat. One or two of her friends had remarked, when she first wore it to school, “Nice.” This was even worse than saying it was awful. Nice? Nobody had said it was cool, or awe-some. What can you do about a coat that your dad paid for and your mother chose? Maggie resolved to lose the offending garment, the sooner the better! So she did. Well, she hadn’t actually lost the coat, just conveniently forgotten it. Now she was hoping against hope that her mother would forget it, too.

  There was not much to do on a dull November Saturday afternoon. Maggie slumped on her bed, doing furious battle with her PlayStation to reach level three. Covering both ears with headphones, she caught up with the current chart vibes.

  The first realisation she had of her mother’s presence in the bedroom was the headphones being snatched from her ears. Mrs. Carroll stood with hands on hips. Maggie looked up at her. She knew from the body language that her mother was in her “I want a word with you, young lady” mood. Maggie’s mother was not one to mince words.

  “I want a word with you, young lady. Didn’t you hear me calling from downstairs? Have you gone deaf?”

  Maggie stared at her wall posters, explaining patiently, “I was wearing headphones. You’re always going on at me to turn the music down or put the headphones on. I put them on so the noise wouldn’t disturb you.”

  Mrs. Carroll continued as if her daughter had not spoken. “Noise, that’s all it is, you couldn’t call that music! But that’s not what I’m here for. Where’s your new coat? It’s not on the hall rack.”

  Maggie made a vague gesture. “Prob’ly in the wardrobe, how should I know?”

  Closing her eyes, she listened to the wardrobe doors sliding open. There was an irate clatter of hangers, followed by her mother’s next demand.

  “When did you last hang anything up properly in here? I’m left to do all the running and tidying around after you. Well, the coat’s not in here, so where is it? I want the truth!”

  Opening her eyes, Maggie sat up slowly, turning the music and the PlayStation off as she played for time. But the issue was not about to be delayed. Her mother met her eye to eye.

  “None of your stories now, where is that coat?”

  Maggie knew exactly where the coat was. Avoiding her mother’s stare, she gnawed at the skin alongside her fingernail and tried muttering casually, “Must be somewhere, I suppose.”

  That did it. Mrs. Carroll took off shrilly.

  “Somewhere, you suppose! What, may I ask, is that supposed to mean, eh? I paid good money for that coat. Money your father had to work hard to earn. I’d have given anything for a coat like that when I was your age. It’s a lovely winter coat, and you’ll be needing it when the weather gets colder. Right, you’re grounded until I see that coat again, d’you understand, Margaret?”

  Whenever Maggie got her full title, she knew it was pointless trying to argue with her mother. Still, she gave it a try. “But what about the ice rink? Everyone’ll be there tonight.”

  Mrs. Carroll strode from her daughter’s bedroom. “Hah! I don’t care who’ll be at the ice rink, because you won’t if that coat doesn’t turn up, so make your mind up to that, Margaret Carroll!”

  The final word had been spoken, so Maggie was forced to surrender or face imprisonment. Pursuing her mother downstairs, she acted for effect, slapping a hand to her forehead as if just recalling where the coat was. “Oh, that’s it! I left it in school yesterday. I remember now, I hung it over the back of my chair in the library at last period. Julie’s dad was picking us both up, and he was in a hurry. So I must’ve dashed out to the car without the coat. Sorry, I’ll get it first thing on Monday morning, honest I will.”

  She recoiled from her mother’s prodding finger. “Sorry doesn’t get it done, miss, you’ll go right back to school now and get the coat, d’you hear me?”

  Maggie could not credit the stupidity of her mother. “But it’s Saturday afternoon, the school will be locked up tight. There won’t be a soul anywhere about!”

  The condescending tone in her daughter’s voice made Mrs. Carroll even more determined. “I said right now, Margaret, no arguments. There’s always somebody there, caretakers, workmen, cleaners, or whatever. And don’t you dare take that tone with me. Now go!”

  Maggie stuck out her bottom lip and pouted. Picking up her old denim jacket, she tried one last attempt against her mother’s stubborn insistence. “I’ve been there before on a Saturday afternoon—the school’s locked up tight, it always is!”

  Turning her back dismissively, Mrs. Carroll left the room, calling back to her daughter, “That’s your problem, miss. No coat, no ice rink tonight!”

  It was less than fifteen minutes’ brisk walk to L.E.T. (Leah Edwina Tranter) School. Maggie hunched her shoulders as she slouched along. Feeling very badly done to, she ruminated on life’s injustices.

  Only an idiot didn’t know school was closed on weekends, and she had an idiot for a mother! Late afternoon was starting to fade into November twilight. Maggie began imagining fictitious scenes. A young girl (herself) run down by a car whilst crossing the road. She pictured her grieving mother.

  “I should’ve listened to dear Maggie and left it ’til Monday. But no, I made her go. Now I’ve lost my only daughter, and all because of a coat she didn’t even like. Oh, I’ll never forgive myself!”

  Hah, that’d teach her a lesson. Maggie was not too keen on being killed by the car. Maybe it would just be an injury. She pictured both distraught parents waiting in a hospital corridor. Her father, grim and tight-lipped.

  “Will she be alright, Doctor, will Maggie live?”

  The doctor, shaking his head. “We’ll just have to pray, and wait for the results of the scan. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Maggie may recover. Mrs. Carroll, I hope you’ll think twice in the future before treating your daughter so harshly.”

  Maggie crossed the road moodily. There was not a car in sight.

  L.E.T. loomed large in the dwindling daylight. It was an old greystone school, built in the 1820s. She noticed for the first time how gloomy and hostile it appeared. Still, no need to worry—it was probably shut.

  Maggie’s fertile imagination was working on another scheme. What if she caught a cold or a severe chill through being sent on a fool’s errand? She would willingly give up a visit to the ice rink just to get even with her mother. A week off school, wrapped snugly in bed, looking pale and interesting. Toying listlessly with her PlayStation and listening to a CD whilst picking at her food.

  Mentally she could hear her dad speaking downstairs. “Good grief, Annie, what were you thinking of, sending the girl out with only an old denim jacket on?”

  Maggie pushed the front gates of the school driveway. To her surprise, the heavy iron-barred structure creaked open. She paused. Maybe the caretaker had forgotten to lock them. There was no sig
n of activity from the building, and nobody in sight. Even before she reached the entrance door, Maggie could see it was ajar. She stopped on the steps, looking hopefully about. Behind her, the gravel path with its border of withered brown bushes stood silent and forlorn. Ahead of her she glimpsed the gloomy corridor through the partially open door. Maggie was left with a choice. Either she could return home and lie that the school was closed, or she could go inside and retrieve the coat, then go to the ice rink that evening. She blew a long sigh and shrugged. Might as well go and get the coat, now she had come this far.

  How different the old school looked inside! Maggie had only ever been there when it was packed with students and staff. But here it was, dead as a mausoleum, with no heating or light switched on, devoid of everybody. Except herself. The only sound in the entire building was the thud of her own footsteps, echoing away down the passage. That and the beating of her heart, which had suddenly become abnormally loud in her ears. An uneasy feeling took hold of Maggie. She pulled to one side of the corridor. Walking close to the wall, she felt less exposed than if she were occupying the centre of the floor. Crossing a side passage, which led off to the lecture hall, something caught Maggie’s eye. A movement. She froze, keeping her face straight ahead, but straining her eyes sideways. Down the passage, in the last weak rays of daylight, something, or someone, was definitely moving. Also, there was a faint rattling sound.

  Moving swiftly on, she collided with the corner of the wall. Maggie was not really hurt, but the impact caused her to turn slightly. She was forced to face the unknown terror. There it was, a high window with a pale shaft of light reflecting on the opposite wall. From outside, the overhanging branch of a tree was rattling its leafless twigs in the wind, causing them to tap against the glass, casting a moving shadow pattern on the far wall. She stifled a sob of relief, glad that nobody was there to witness her senseless panic. Taking a firm grip of herself, Maggie moved on fast.

  It was a mistake. From the end of the corridor a figure was visible, standing by the end wall, right next to the library door. Maggie retreated immediately, ducking into the side passage. This was no shadow she had seen, it was a real person who had been coming toward her. Wide-eyed, and with the hair prickling on the nape of her neck, she heard her own voice calling out squeakily, “Who’s there?”