The Ribbajack

“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?”