The Ribbajack Read Online Free Page B

took it all in a subdued manner, nodding agreement with all the Rev’s advice as he droned on about the dangers of evil intent, warning about casting spells and meddling in the darker side of nature.
    Rev. Miller ended his discourse by saying, “There are powers beyond your knowledge, m’boy. If you were to continue as you’re going, it would all backfire on you someday. Where’d you be then, eh? Cheer up, Smithers, old lad. See you at seven tomorrow. Good-bye!”
    Archibald sat listening until the chaplain’s heavy, plodding footsteps receded below stairs. A slow smile stole across his spotty face, growing into a maniacal grin. Leaping up, he went into a frenzied dance around the room, his eyes glittering with villainous delight. He had just found a victim for the Ribbajack he was intent on conjuring. Old Reverend Dusty Miller, the Sky Pilot! Revengeful spite and pent-up malice poured from him like sewage squirting from a cracked cess tank. When he first heard of the Ribbajack, all he desired was to see what it looked like. Now he had a definite aim for the horror he was about to create. The removal of his newfound enemy! The moment that dog-collared old buffoon had mispronounced his name, Archibald Smifft knew the chaplain was going to be the first victim of the monster. Putting pen to paper, he began composing a verse as an aid to materialising his own personal Ribbajack.
    O nightmare beyond all dreaming,
Dark Lord of the single eye,
before tomorrow’s light of dawn,
make the chaplain bid life good-bye.
Come serve me to conquer all enemies,
I command that you grant me this gift,
let the world fear the wrath of my Ribbajack,
and his master, Archibald Smifft!
    Golden noontide sunlight flooded through the dormitory windows, the silence broken only by Archibald repeating his lines in a singsong monotone. He lay rigid on the bed, both fists pressed against his tightly closed eyes, striving to visualise his horrific creature. If there was such a thing as the Ribbajack, he would be the one to endow it with life. He was no Burmese cattle herder. No, he was Archibald Smifft. He would master the monster and bend it to his will. Rev. Miller would be only the first victim—others would follow. He would gain the power to make his Ribbajack serve him forever!
    From far away, a voice entered his consciousness, distant at first, but growing to a bloodcurdling rumble.
    “Master?”
    Cold sweat beaded his pimpled brow; his hair stood up on end. There it was again, louder this time, clearer.
    “Master! Maaaassssteeeerrr?”
    From some primeval mental swamp he envisioned two gargantuan, clawlike hands materialising. They scrambled on the edge of dream-shrouded mist, then took hold and heaved. Huge serpentine arms swathed in hair and octopoid suckers emerged. A single blood-shot eye appeared, questing about frenziedly. Echoing like an organ in some satanic temple, the voice called again. “Maaaaassssssteeeeerrrrr!”
    Archibald Smifft’s entire body shook until the bed rattled. He had done it, his Ribbajack was alive!
     
     
     
    Rev. Miller slurped the last of his Brown Windsor soup. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he announced confidently to the headmaster and matron, “I gave that young curmudgeon a piece of my mind, indeed I did! That’ll teach Smithers not to dally lightly with the old Sky Pilot, eh? Magic and spells? Poppycock and humbug, if you ask me!”
    Mr. Plother had already heard the chaplain’s account three times. He splodged mayonnaise onto his veal and ham pie salad with renewed appetite. “I’m sure you dealt succinctly with the matter, Padre.”
    Mrs. Twogg buttered a slice of whole-meal bread. “Indeed, let’s hope you’ve put an end to the whole unsavoury episode, Reverend. Would you pass the claret, please.”
    Rev. Miller topped up his own glass before relinquishing the wine. He began reminiscing about a similar affair involving a young subaltern in Jodhpur when the phone broke in on his