The Ribbajack

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 be 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!”