The Ribbajack Read Free

sneezed as he called out, “En taaachah!”
    “Gesundheit, Headmaster!”
    Mrs. Twogg entered, clad in a crisply starched and laundered uniform. She sat down, shuddering slightly at the memory of cockroaches roaming around in her pocket. “Headmaster, something must be done about the Smifft boy! These dreadful things he is practising will bring the school to rack and ruin. I insist that you act immediately!”
    Mr. Plother stifled another sneeze, looking blankly at her. “Smifft, ah, yes. Er, what do you suggest we do, Matron?”
    She consulted her fob watch. It was shortly before three. “Invite the school chaplain to tea, we must seek his advice. Men of the cloth usually know about exorcising demons and countering the forbidden arts.”
    Mr. Plother picked up the phone and began dialling. “It’s worth a try, I suppose, but the Padre may be a bit out of his depth with occult matters.”
     
     
     
    Archibald perched cross-legged on the bed. From under beetling brows he scanned his quaking dormitory companions. They waited on his words with bated breath. “Listen, you two, I need a monster, a really scary one. So, have you got any ideas?”
    Wilton stammered, “A m-monster, wh-what d’you m-mean?”
    Their interrogator gnawed thoughtfully on a dirt-encrusted fingernail. “I’m not quite sure exactly. Put it this way, Wilty. What could frighten the daylights out of you, eh?”
    Wilton’s answer was not overly helpful. “Y-you, S-Smifft.”
    The malevolent stare turned to Soames. “What about you?”
    A nervous tic began afflicting the boy’s right eye. “Er, you, I suppose.”
    Their tormentor bounded from the bed, causing both boys to jump with fright as he exploded at them. “You suppose? Listen, you two dithering dummies, you’d better start coming up with some proper answers. You know what happened to Bamford. I can conjure up bees and wasps, you know. Ones that can give nasty stings to a chap’s rear end. Then chaps have to drop their pants so Matron can treat them. So you’d better talk fast, understand?”
    Tears beaded in Wilton’s eyes. His lip began quivering. “Wh-what d-d’you want us to say, S-Smifft?”
    Archibald pounded the bedside locker top. “Don’t you dare start blubbering, Wilton, just answer my question. What really terrifies you, eh? A bogeyman, a vampire, a ghost, a spook! What? Tell me!”
    Wilton practically yelped his answer. “The dark! I’ve always been frightened of the dark.”
    Archibald nodded. “So that’s why you’re always lurking under the sheets with your torch on after lights out. Huh, you’d better come up with something good, Soames.”
    Peterkin Soames blinked hard, pausing awhile before he spoke. “The only think I can think of is the Ribbajack.”
    Smifft’s mad eyes lit up hopefully. “What’s the Ribbajack? Tell me all about it. Now!”
    Soames tried to avoid Archibald’s maniacal stare. He told what little he knew about the oddly named Ribbajack. “My father is with the B.O.C.S., that’s the British Overseas Colonial Services. Actually, he’s an assistant district commissioner in Burma, stationed in an area called the Paktai Hills. He says it’s a rather strange country, with lots of beliefs and superstitions which we know very little about.”
    Archibald interrupted abruptly. “What about this Ribbajack?”
    Soames flinched under the savage intensity of the question. “Actually, I have one of Daddy’s letters from last term. It mentions the Ribbajack. Would you like to see it, Smifft?”
    Archibald was in a frenzy of anticipation. “Yes, yes, get it!”
    Grabbing the large manila envelope from Soames, he pulled from it several vellum sheets of B.O.C.S. crested writing paper. There was also a photograph of a British couple and an elderly Burmese gentleman standing on the verandah of a large, elegant bungalow. It had writing on the back: Yrs truly, the memsahib, and Ghural Panjit, my interpreter. Chindwin 1935.
    Archibald gave the