Читаем The Ribbajack полностью

Out in the quadrangle, the clock chimed 11:45 P.M. Pale shafts of moonlight replaced the day’s sunrays in the dormitory windows. Archibald had not moved from his bed. He lay there, filled with an awful rapture, seeing the thing that his mind had given birth to. The Ribbajack surpassed anything that a sane, normal person could devise. Archibald Smifft had long passed the states of sanity, or normality.

The monster had curving horns sprouting from its massive blue-feathered head. A single saucer-sized eye dripped noxious fluid, glaring from above a great hooked beak. The loathsome torso, merging from its feathered neck, was coated in dirty yellow crocodile scales, right down to a pair of three-taloned feet. At either end of two long, hairy, suckered arms, the thing’s lethal hands clenched and writhed, searching for something to latch on to. Its beak clashed like a steel trap as it shambled about. Archibald Smifft shuddered in villainous ecstasy as he mouthed in his sleep, “My Ribbajack! Come to your master, Ribbajack!”

As the quadrangle clock struck midnight, a bulky object hitting the floor woke Archibald. Wiping freezing sweat from his eyes, he sat upright, peering at the monstrous beast. It crouched in a patch of moonlight beside his bed, revealed in all its hideous reality.

When he could find his voice, Archibald addressed the thing. “Ribbajack, are you really here?”

Fixing him with its ghastly eye, the monster rumbled:

“From the pits of darkness in your mind,

I am Ribbajack, born out of human spite.

Say the name of the one I am brought to find,

command me forever to take him from sight!”

It stood waiting on Archibald’s word, swaying from side to side, clacking its beak and clenching its talons. The dreadful eye never strayed from him. Archibald stared back at the Ribbajack, his confidence returning. After all, the thing was his creation, and here it was, standing, awaiting his command like a giant dog. What did he have to fear? Sliding from the bed, he confronted it boldly, speaking aloud:

“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!”

Without further exchange of words, the Ribbajack bounded swiftly from the dormitory, leaving Archibald alone in his den. Climbing back into bed, he smiled blissfully (a very rare thing for the terror of Duke Crostacious’s school). Exhausted by his strenuous mental efforts, Archibald fell into a deep sleep.

At nine-fifteen on the following morn, the train from Harrogate puffed into the station. Mr. Plother and Mrs. Twogg emerged onto the platform, minus the two boys they had gone to fetch back. Tipping his cap to them, the stationmaster enquired, “What happened, sir, did the two lads give the police the slip at Harrogate?”

The headmaster replied wearily, “Not really. It appears they went off to visit Soames’s aunt, quite unofficially, of course. There wasn’t a great deal we could do about it. I gave them a stern piece of my mind about giving prior notice of absence. But boys will be boys, I suppose. Apart from a wasted journey, there’s no great harm done. Young Soames’s aunt was very hospitable. She put the matron and myself up for the night, gave us a first-class breakfast, too. Her man drove us back to the station this morning, in time for the early train.”

It was not a long walk back to school. The matron strode out energetically, stretching her legs after the train ride. Mr. Plother gave a halfhearted hop-skip, trying to keep up with her. Mrs. Twogg breathed deeply.

“Ah! What a glorious day, Headmaster, not a cloud in the sky and dew still on the hedgerows. Hark, is that a lark ascending over the meadows?”

Mr. Plother’s ingrown toenail was bothering him, but he tried to get into the spirit of things. “I believe it is, Matron, Alauda arvensis, the common skylark. Well, marm, our troubles are over. Perhaps that lark is the herald of a long, peaceful summer. The old school lies empty, boys all away until autumn term, and the Padre has solved our Smifft problem. What more could we ask for?”

The matron answered promptly. “A nice cup of tea, Headmaster. I do hope the Reverend has the kettle boiling when we get back to your study.”