The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales

by Brian Jacques

  The regal gaze never wavered. “That is a name I permit those who do not know me to use. I will reveal my real name to you in a while, should you wish to hear it, but beware, Jason Hunter. Look around you, is my temple not beautiful?”

  The chamber was ringed with alcoves. In each was a stone plinth, like a small Grecian column. A lifesize marble statue had been mounted on every one. They were of young men wearing little save loincloths. Every figure was superbly sculptured, looking either heroic or sporting in turn. Classical Greek titles were graven on the plinth of each statue. Huma D’Este named them.

  “Here is the mighty Hercules, there, Orpheus, the poet. Next to him stands Paris, son of King Priam. See, Achilles the warrior, Odysseus the wanderer, Narcissus the beautiful and Arion the musician.”

  She reeled off one name after another as Jason gazed, awestruck, at the beautiful lifelike details of the works. “Theseus, son of the god Poseidon, Ganymede, the handsome cupbearer, Bellerophon, rider of the winged Pegasus, and Leander, who swam the Hellespont to woo the maid Hero. These are my wonderful collection, the males of legend, whose names the ages have not dimmed!”

  Jason scanned the statues, eleven of them in all. The only one he had ever heard of was Hercules, and that was via movies and television. However, being no student of classical mythology was not a bar to his admiration of the amazing sculptures.

  “They look great, but I counted eleven. That’s an odd number . . . is there one missing?”

  Huma closed her eyes, the ghost of a smile creasing her lips. “Ah, you’ve noticed. The empty plinth is right behind you. One of the curtain folds is obscuring it. Go and see.”

  Jason turned to the curtain, then folded it aside, revealing the empty plinth. Peering at it, he tried to decipher the name carved there in Greek characters. “I can’t make out this funny writing . . . suppose you can, though.”

  Huma sat back and sighed blissfully. “Ah, yes, I know who will stand there for eternity. He will be the son of Aeson, rightful king of Iolcus, the one who was reared by the centaur Chiron. Do you know of him?”

  Jason shrugged. “I don’t know any of those foreign names.”

  Huma spoke teasingly. “No, I didn’t suppose you would. Some of the most beautiful bodies are seldom endowed with the keenest of minds. Let me give you a clue. This young man was captain of a ship named the Argo, he stole the fabulous Golden Fleece of Colchis. Now do you know him?”

  Jason was awake now, the dreamlike trance seeming to have left him. He felt silly, standing here in the dead of night, clad only in a towel and his briefs. And there was the girl whom he had known for only a day, sitting on a throne, all dressed up and surrounded by statues. Now she was starting to mock him again. The fact that her eyes were closed made him bold. He spoke insolently. “No, I don’t know him, and I couldn’t care less. I’m getting out of this stupid old place!”

  He was about to run off when the eyes of Huma D’Este sprang open, riveting him with their piercing stare. Her voice was harsh and commanding. “Fool, you should know the one I speak of. His name is the same as yours. Jason! When I saw you yesterday, I knew that you were the final piece of my collection!”

  The towel was wet and clammy about his waist. Jason felt frightened and helpless in her presence. He could not tear his gaze from the girl’s eyes. They were growing larger, more overpowering, ugly red veins threading out from their corners.

  He could hear his own voice, a fearful whisper. “How would you know what this Jason looked like? He must have died hundreds of years ago.”

  Huma’s face was changing, the skin taking on a purplish hue. Cracks began pitting it, things were moving beneath her eyebrows, down the sides of her nostrils and along her jawline. The luxurious black hair weaved itself together into a nest of writhing snakes. Jason watched in horrified fascination, as if his eyelids had been frozen—he could not shut them. Now her mouth opened, a thin forked tongue sliding out.

  “We of the Immortals have seen many things in the centuries which are dead and gone. Nothing escapes us.”

  Jason’s limbs began trembling uncontrollably. “Wh-Who . . . are y-you?”

  Two black scorpions emerged, framing her eyebrows. She leaned forward, spitting viciously, “My name is the same as that of my mother, Huma D’Este. That is the name I use for ordinary mortals who have not the wit to unravel it. You are too stupid to realise, but if you changed the letters of Huma D’Este around, you would know that I am called The Medusa! Look upon me, my Jason. I am nightmare come to life, my gaze is sent from the dark regions of Hades to turn living men into stone. Gaze on me and attain eternity, my Jason!”

  The eyes of The Medusa became twin pools of evil. Winds like the searing heat from a furnace blasted the chamber, scorching the entrance curtain to ashes, behind which the wall was sealed tight as a tomb. Screams of lost souls ripped through Jason’s eardrums. With the terrifying vision of The Medusa robbing him of his sanity, he turned and ran. Round, round and round the exitless room he sped, spurred on by her brain-splitting laughter. Trapped like a moth in a cage with a hawk.

  Then he froze! There was no more Jason; the hunter had been well hunted. All that remained was a cold, beautiful statue of Jason, caught in the act of running, every detail captured in lifeless white marble.

  It had been many years since Carlene and Mal Blake were teenage sweethearts at school. They had remained together, happily married now for fifty years. Their three children had children of their own, who called Carlene and Mal “Nanna” and “Grandad.” The family got together to present the old couple with a wonderful golden anniversary gift, the vacation of a lifetime. One month’s cruise of the Greek islands. Blue sky, warm sun and an even bluer sea, with every luxury that the SS Hellenica could provide for American tourists.

  Two weeks into the cruise, it was a glorious afternoon on one of the old Mediterranean islands. Passengers clicked cameras and zoomed in through video lenses on lined peasant faces, olive trees, whitewashed houses and a small village square with sunlight bouncing off the hosed-down cobblestones. After a fine alfresco meal, complete with glasses of the local wine and a bouzouki music serenade, they boarded a bus, which took them up into the mountains to explore an ancient villa and its grounds. It was a walled edifice comprised of timelessly beautiful gardens and an imposing house, which had once been a fortress in the fifteenth century. The guidebook reliably informed tourists that the building contained an art collection.

  Age had been kind to Carlene Blake; she was still a slim and lively little lady—unlike Mal, who was grey haired, overweight and had breathing trouble. Added to that, he also suffered from angina. Carlene helped her husband to keep up with the party as they walked around the estate, though she could see he was clearly in need of a rest when they entered the house. They found a bench in a shaded entrance porch and sat down, leaving the others to follow the guide inside. Mal immediately went into his noontide nap. Carlene brushed his wispy grey hair back, removed his sunglasses and tipped a straw trilby over his eyes. She left him, with his big stomach gently rising and falling, and went off after the party inside the house.

  She could hear them off somewhere in a side room full of Greek Orthodox artworks and religious icons. They moved on upstairs, their chatter receding in the distance. The hushed atmosphere was pleasantly serene. Carlene lingered on in the cool stone-floored main hallway. On one wall, there were glass cases with tiny bronzes of Minoan bull dancers, which did not interest her greatly. However, farther down there was a magnificent collection of twelve marble statues representing the manhood of classical Greek mythology. Mal still had the guidebook in his pocket, so she wandered along, trying to identify each one with little success. The names carved on the base of the plinths were a complete mystery to her. However, she did identify Hercules, or Heracles, as he was known in this part of the world. Hercules was easy, they had small figurines of him on sale in the ship gift shop. It was the last statue that arrested her attention—a very handsome boy in a ru
nning pose. He had a wrapping about his waist, which Carlene was thankful for. These Greeks, some of their statues did not even have a fig leaf for cover!

  Against all the house rules, she ducked under the ornate tasselled rope separating the public from the exhibits. The handsome running boy interested her. Standing precariously on the base plinth, she reached up and touched the intricately wrought face. It reminded her of somebody. Glancing up at the heavy-lidded eyes, Carlene experienced a sudden flash of recall. Mal would think her foolish when she told him, but the features were a perfect likeness of the boy from their school days, Jason Hunter.

  They had seldom mentioned him over the years. Jason, the good-looking one. He had vanished one summer night, all those decades ago. Nothing was ever heard of, or found again, despite the statewide coverage, the police searches, publicity posters and rewards offered by his anguished parents. Jason Hunter had just disappeared from the face of the earth, leaving no trace behind.

  On tiptoe, Carlene peered closely at the statue’s features, cudgelling her mind to remember how Jason had really looked. Oh, dear, it was all in another time, another place, all those years back. Sounds of the ship’s party returning to the main hall caused her to skip nimbly down and under the guard rope.

  Carlene waited until the group passed before tailing on at the rear. As they left the hall, she took a last look back at the running boy. No, he had a more noble and classical form than Jason. All she really recalled was his face, fixed in that lopsided sarcastic smile of his. Jason had used it on herself, and Mal, many times when they were young. Jason Hunter had not been a very nice young man anyhow. She and Mal had never really liked him.

  Before she woke Mal, Carlene tipped the Greek guide with a few drachmas. He had a nice smile.

  “I see you look at the statue of Jason, he is pretty, yes?”

  She nodded politely. “Oh, they’re all exquisite statues.”

  The man pointed back at Jason, confiding to Carlene, “One time an Australian lady, she bend down and look up the cloth he wears around his waist, yes. Her friends ask her what she see. Hahaha, she say, ‘I see nothing, only a label that says ‘Fruit of the Loom.’ Haha, good, yes?”

  Miggy Mags and the Malabar Sailor

  TYRANTS ARE ALL SHAPES AND SIZES,

  their unfortunate victims also,

  though when one realises,

  ’tis a heartening thing to know—

  gallant heroes will still appear,

  to give aid in the hour of need.

  This tale, from my hometown, you may like

  to hear,

  of a very odd champion, indeed!

  Miguela McGrail went barefoot in the summer and wore clogs in the winter. She was never sure of her age, whether it was eleventeen or twelveteen. Atty Lok, the Siamese cook, was largely responsible for this, always making jokes about figures and words. He would tell her she was born in fourteen fifty-eight instead of eighteen fifty-four. Miguela, or Miggy Mags, as she was known around the wharves and quays of Liverpool’s dockland, knew that Atty was just pulling her leg. She would make a funny face at him, and the little man would grin back at her, from ear to ear.

  Athanasius Tang Lok was one of the few real friends Miggy had in the world, so she was constantly harassing him with questions. “Alright then, what was the day an’ month of me birth?”

  Carving bacon from the half of a salted pig, the cook judged how much he required for breakfast. “You borned in fourteen fifty-eight, on umpty-ninth of Nex tober, that be true!”

  Miggy climbed up on the potato sacks, watching a Norwegian whaleship sailing in through the locks. “You’re a terrible fibber, Atty Lok. Last time you said it was on the sixty-seventh of Junevember. Anyhow, when’s my dad’s boat comin’ in, eh?”

  The Siamese pared off another rasher, slightly pink, but mostly fat. “Pancake Friday, on Christmas Sat’day, prob’ly.”

  Miggy was about to reply when a rough voice from the chandlery startled her.

  “Miggy! Have you trimmed those lamps an’ cleaned the winders yet, yew idle liddle mare?”

  The girl grabbed a pail of water and some rags from the stone sink, shouting a reply. “In the minnit, Uncle Eric, I was just havin’ me brekkist!” The sound of clumping boots approaching sent Miggy staggering outside, splashing water from the pail as she went.

  Eric McGrail was a big man—big footed, big fisted and big bellied. He strode into the kitchen, wiping lamp paraffin from his hands on the greasy apron tied round his middle. Atty nodded toward the front door.

  “Miggy be out there, working hard, plenty hard!”

  A blue scar on Eric’s forehead puckered as he glared at the cook. “Who asked yew? Get on with yer work, an’ don’t be cuttin’ those bacon rashers so thick. Yew’ll be the ruin of me!”

  Outside, Miggy was perched on a rickety old lard box. One of the two big brass storm lamps, which hung from either side of the door, was receiving her earnest attention. She polished energetically at the red glass lamp panes. Each night both lamps were lit, providing illumination for all to see the sign over the front door.

  MERSEY STAR.

  SHIP’S CHANDLERS AND

  BOARDINGHOUSE.

  CLEAN BEDS. QUALITY FOOD.

  REASONABLE RATES.

  CASH ONLY. NO TRADE OR CREDIT.

  PROP. E. MCGRAIL.

  Uncle Eric scowled up at Miggy. “When yer finished there, girl, get some sandstone an’ scrub the steps. Anyone asks fer me, I’ll be in the Maid of Erin. I’ve got important business there. Make sure those lamps are prop’ly trimmed, or I’ll trim you if they ain’t!” He gave the lard box a small kick, causing Miggy to hang on to the lamp bracket, lest she fell.

  Uncle Eric pulled off his apron, tossing it inside the door. A moment later he was off down the cobbled dock avenue, clad in a dirty blue saloon jacket two sizes too small for him, a high-waisted pair of serge trousers, shiny with wear, with a broad brass-buckled belt holding them up.

  Eric swaggered along like he owned the entire Liverpool Dock Estate. Tilting his billycockbowler hat forward, Eric took a ha’penny clay pipe from its band. He lit it and puffed out a rank cloud of Burmah Thick Twist tobacco. He would not return until late. Drinking all day with his cronies in the Maid of Erin was always important business.

  Later that morning, Miggy was scrubbing the white pine dining tables. She scraped away with a broken knife blade at a cigar burn. Men often rested their cheap, thin cheroots on the table edges. A seaman came in, toting a gunny bag, tossing it on the counter. He ordered a room and a meal—some bacon and eggs. Sitting at a corner table, he waited. Miggy brought him a bowl of tea, some cruets and cutlery. After Atty cut two thick slices of bread, he set a big iron frying pan on the stove, calling out cheerfully, “Bacon’n’eggs ready pretty soon, sir, not long, you bet!”

  The man was a bosun. Removing his peaked cap, he placed it on an adjacent chair. Immediately Miggy recognised the cap badge. Two curved Indian swords, surmounted by a green letter B—the Bengal Line. She bobbed a respectful curtsy at the bosun. “Beggin’ y’pardon, sir, but me dad’s a sailor, aboard the Bengal Pearl. Would you know him, sir? His name’s Patrick McGrail.”

  The bosun nodded. “Aye, girl, your dad’s a good man, I’ve sailed with him. The Bengal Pearl, ye say? I docked last night with the Bengal Queen, she’s my ship. I reckon you should see your dad soon, the Bengal Pearl’s about a week behind us.”

  Miggy dashed to the counter, yelling, “Did ye hear that, Atty, me dad’s comin’ home next week!”

  The cook handed her the bosun’s breakfast. “Nex’ Monday Tuesday, eleventy-second of very good Friday, eh?”

  The girl’s clogs clattered on the floorboards as she danced up and down with joy. “He’ll be here next Wednesday, y’great daft codfish!”

  Atty waved his big bacon knife at her. “Daf’ codfish you’self. Give man food, don’t drop plate!”

  Miggy served the bosun his meal, asking him twice about when the Bengal Pear
l would berth at Liverpool, just to make sure she had the facts right. For the remainder of that day, her heart sang and her feet skipped continuously. Her dad was coming home soon!

  Atty Lok watched her fondly. He could not help mentioning to the bosun, “She be happy when father return, but cry a lot when he sail away again. Very sad for little girl, very sad.”

  The bosun of the Bengal Queen shrugged. “Sailors must follow the sea to earn their bread. Seagoin’ men should stay single, no wife or kids, like me.”

  The Siamese cook shook his head. “Not good for young girl to have no mamma, an’ father always away on ship.”

  Later that night, Atty lay on his mattress in the cellar. He listened to Miggy singing from behind the blanket which curtained her quarters off.

  “’Twas a cold an’ frosty mornin’ in November ... vember,

  an’ all of me money, it was spent, spent spent!

  Where it went to now I can’t remember . . . member,

  so down to the shippin’ office I went, went went!

  Paddy lay back, Paddy lay back,

  take in yer slack, take in yer slack,

  take a turn around the capstan heave aport ... heave aport.

  Oh, bow ships stations boys be handy . . . be handy,

  for we’re off to Valparaiso round the horn!”

  The sound of heavy footsteps and the creak of the cellar door caused her to fall silent. The curtain was wrenched back suddenly. Uncle Eric stood there, swaying. He held a quart bottle of porter in one hand, a half bottle of rum protruding from his pocket. Eric, who had lost money gambling at pitch and toss, was in a sour mood.

  Miggy hid herself beneath the old Royal Navy blanket which covered her mattress. She heard him stumble as he knocked out the ashes from his pipe against a raised boot heel. Her uncle regained his balance and belched loudly.