Читаем The Ribbajack полностью

Jumping from the bed, Archibald gathered up the dead lizard. He shot the chaplain a glare that would have wilted a nettle. “I’ll keep him for my spells. Tongue, skin or tail of lizard always comes in useful. Not many lizards about lately.”

The chaplain looked on as the boy deposited Jasper’s carcass in a jar, and wrote on the label. “Spells, eh? Jolly old magic ones, I’ll bet, eh?”

Archibald stowed the jar beneath his bed. “Mind your own business, my spells are private.”

Chuckling, the Rev bent his head, trying to peer under the bed. “What are you keeping under here, m’lad? Lots of icky schoolboy stuff probably. Boiled tadpoles, fried worms and whatnot. Hohoho, you young rip!”

His jollity was cut short by a grubby, black-nailed finger waving threateningly under his nose. “Listen, fattie, make yourself scarce before I get mad!”

Rev. Miller had dealt with toughened soldiers in the past. He was not about to be intimidated by a snotty-nosed boy. “Now see here, Smithers, don’t you dare take that tone with me. Show a bit of respect for your school chaplain, m’boy!”

Archibald’s lip curled scornfully. “Respect? Get out of my dormitory, you old windbag. Go on, beat it, or I’ll make you sorry you ever came in here!”

Rev. Miller stood up, then he stooped until their eyes met. “Will you indeed? I suppose you’ll surround my head with flies, or slip a few cockroaches into my pocket, eh? Oh, don’t worry, m’lad, I’ve heard all about what you did to the matron and the headmaster. That nonsense won’t work with me!”

Archibald Smifft went pale with rage. “Yes, it will! I can make a big wasp sting you right on the end of your stupid nose. I can, you know!”

The chaplain’s roar made the boy start with fright. “You spotty little cur, go on then, do your worst. But let me warn you, Smithers. If you do, I’ll seize you and chuck you into the school lily pond, and all that gobbledygook from under your bed, too. Understood?”

Archibald sneered. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Grabbing the boy by his collars, the big man lifted him bodily and gave him a firm shaking. “You snotty little upstart, one more word out of you and I won’t be responsible for my actions!”

It was the first time anyone had ever laid hands on Archibald. He squealed like a rat. Suddenly, he was afraid of the big old man. He began to whimper pathetically. “You’re hurting me, put me down, please, sir!”

Rev. Miller dropped him onto the bed, nodding affably. “That’s more like it, old chap. Now listen carefully. I’ll return here after supper tomorrow evening. I want to see all that rubbish gone from under your bed. Also, I’d like to see a complete change in your attitude, Smithers. If not, you’ll be taking a rather uncomfortable bath in the lily pond. Now, do I make myself clear?”

Avoiding the chaplain’s eyes, Archibald stared at the bedspread, sniffing meekly. “Yes, sir.”

Rev. Miller smiled. He patted the boy’s head gently. “Good man. Now, let’s have our little talk, shall we.”

For the next half hour, Archibald was forced to sit and listen to the chaplain. He lectured on and on about playing the game, being a decent chap and making Crostacious’s school proud of him. Archibald 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,