More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  We don’t, though. Help is at hand, in the form of none other than Witch Macabre’s Haggis Familiar, whose name was Rory.

  Now, you should know that Haggis are odd-looking creatures with a great deal of shaggy fur, two sharp horns and daft-looking ginger fringes, which hang in their eyes. They are grazing animals, normally content to spend all their time chewing the cud and mooing at passers-by. Occasionally, however, they like to enjoy what they refer to as a Wee Wallow, and are happy to have this wallow in quagmire, marsh, swamp or bog. Best of all, though, they like quicksand.

  That very morning, as luck would have it, Rory felt bored. He was left very much to his own devices during the day. (Macabre was one of those sensible Witches who sleep from daybreak to sunset, unlike Pongwiffy who, day or night, can always be found rampaging about being a nuisance, which is why she gets overtired and ratty sometimes.)

  After chewing the cud for an hour or two and swaggering around his field showing off to tiny birds and harmless moles, Rory decided it was a good day for a Wee Wallow. Pausing only to collect his towel, he set off, tail flicking and horns held high, skittishly trampling pretty little clumps of daisies with his thumping great hoofs and snorting at dainty butterflies.

  He was aiming, of course, for the quicksand. It was his favourite Wallow Spot. It was always nice and quiet there, and he could float around for hours practising his backstroke without people saying, ‘Oh, ha, ha. Look at that stupid Haggis doing backstroke. What a show-off! Who does he think he is?’ and so on.

  Emerging from the bushes, Rory was very put out to find what he thought of as his own private pool already occupied! Somebody was already floundering around enjoying themselves in the thick mud, and Rory didn’t like it. Particularly as that somebody looked suspiciously like Pongwiffy, who isn’t the sort of person you’d care to share a bath with. Her filthy old boots were sitting forlornly on a clump of marsh grass, but apart from that she appeared to be fully dressed, with the exception of her hat. She was doing a lot of arm-waving and thrashing about, obviously having a wonderful time.

  ‘Och, ha, ha, ha, will ye look at yon Witch doing the backstroke! Wha’ a show-off! Who does she think she is?’ remarked Rory in a loud, sneering way, hoping that his taunt might put her off her stroke and make her go away. Nothing of the kind. In fact, she floundered around more vigorously than ever.

  ‘Och, ha, ha, ha . . .’ began Rory again, thinking she hadn’t heard, ‘will ye look at yon Witch doing the ba—’

  Then he broke off, for Pongwiffy appeared to be howling something at him.

  ‘What?’ returned Rory. ‘Ah’ll no lend ye ma toowel, if that’s what ye want . . .’

  ‘No, you idiot! Get – me – OUT of here, quick, I’m . . . ’ Groogle bobble blurgle.

  She was what? Groogle bobble blurgle?

  Rory shook the fringe out of his eyes and looked again. On closer inspection, it appeared that Pongwiffy wasn’t enjoying herself at all. In fact, she was having a rather horrible time. Possibly something to do with the fact that there was a demented-looking Toad battering her head with a wooden ladle, saying, ‘Dong! Dong! Take that! Dong, dong, DONG!’

  ‘Help me, Rory!’ bawled Pongwiffy.

  ‘Dong! Dong, dong, dong, dong, DONG!’

  Groogle bobble blurgle . . .

  At long last, Rory got the message. With a heroic moo, he reared up, pawing the air with his hooves, then charged to the rescue.

  The Toad gave a startled croak, dropped the ladle and leapt for the bank, just as Rory landed with a titanic squelching splosh in the quicksand. He looked for the bubbles which indicated where Pongwiffy had floundered, dipped his head under the surface, hooked his horn into the back of her cardigan and yanked her up.

  She emerged with a plop, spluttering and gasping, saved in the nick of time. Which just goes to show that Haggis have got what it takes in an emergency. Even if they haven’t at other times.

  Triumphantly, Rory waded to firmer ground with his exhausted, squelchy burden dangling from his horn. To say that Pongwiffy was relieved would be an understatement. She had swallowed so much mud that her insides were like Sludgehaven-on-Sea at low tide. Her head ached from the ladle-battering it had received, and at one point her cardigan had ridden up most uncomfortably. Nevertheless, she still had enough energy to swear vengeance on the Toad, who had returned to his slimy rock and sat watching the rescue operation with sulky, defeated eyes.

  It was an embarrassing episode – but it had a happy ending. Pongwiffy did what she set out to do. She got some quicksand. In fact, later that day, she squeezed enough of the beastly stuff out of her rags to fill a bathtub. She made a nice mess of the floor in the process too – but Hugo and the Broom were very efficient and cleaned up after her in no time at all. This was a shame. For two minutes there, with all the little puddles and trails of muddy footprints, her hovel had almost looked like home again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ye Vulture’s Feathere

  (Barry Gets His)

  Witch Scrofula lived in a dark, festering little cave on the west side of Witchway Wood. She lived with her Familiar, a Vulture called Barry. Barry suffered from an embarrassing Personal Problem. It had to do with feathers – or, rather, the lack of them.

  You see, some time ago he had commenced moulting. This, as everyone knows, is the natural process whereby birds shed their old feathers in order to grow a new batch. Barry had managed the first bit of the process beautifully, losing all his feathers virtually overnight apart from a few fluffy ones growing in a scruffy ruff around his scrawny neck. However, it was now a WHOLE YEAR LATER, and he was still waiting for the new ones to grow. It was most upsetting. People were calling him Baldy instead of Barry. Besides, he was permanently chilly.

  Poor Barry. Far from being a sight to strike terror into every heart, he was now a figure of fun. He had tried everything – exercise, a balanced diet, vitamins, beakfuls of quill pills, wing massage, aromatherapy – but none of them worked. He tried combing the sad, wispy little neck feathers every way, growing them long and plastering them over his naked back with grease – but they just looked pathetic and fooled no one.

  Just recently, however, hope had grown in the shape of a large, glorious, glossy tail feather. There was only one, but it was a start, and Barry spent long hours preening it and admiring it with the help of a complicated system of mirrors. He almost dreaded going to sleep these days in case it fell out, but – on the other hand – maybe when he woke up another one might have grown, so there were two ways of looking at it.

  This particular morning, Scrofula was in her cave, washing her hair. Scrofula washed her hair several times a day, being martyr to a virulent and alarmingly stubborn form of dandruff. Even at the height of August it always snowed on Scrofula’s shoulders.

  Barry was outside, dozing on a low branch after a heavy lunch of garlic pills washed down with hair-restorer. He was dreaming. In his dream, he was the owner of gloriously luxuriant plumage. It was the sort of plumage that had parrots nudging each other and peacocks turning green with envy. In his dream, everyone kept asking him for preening tips and telling him he ought to be in showbiz.

  Little did he know, the poor bald thing, that a certain Witch was at this very moment stealthily reaching up towards his rear end, a sharp pair of shears in her hand.

  The first he knew about it was being rudely woken by a piercing scream, and he opened his eyes to see Scrofula bearing down upon him with a towel round her head and a look of utter horror on her face.

  I don’t think we’ll stay to hear any more, do you? It’s just too sad.

  That night, Pongwiffy proudly showed the feather to Hugo.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘One Vulture’s Feathere. And I’ve got Ye Quicksande, of course. That makes two things already. A pity about Ye Wilde Cat’s Whisker. Of course, if only you’d stop being such a disgusting little house-Hamster and give me a hand, I’d get on a lot quicker. It’s funny, you know, Hugo. When I took you on, I never thoug
ht you’d neglect your duties as a Familiar. Ah well, only goes to show how wrong you can be.’

  Hugo was cut to the quick. Later that night, when Pongwiffy was playing a rusty old mouth organ under the moon on the mattress in the rubbish dump, he slipped out with a pair of tweezers and returned shortly afterwards with one of Dudley’s whiskers draped around his neck.

  ‘ ’Ere,’ he said. ‘Zis vat you vant?’

  ‘It certainly is!’ whooped Pongwiffy. ‘Oh, well done, Hugo. Does this mean you’re back on the team?’

  ‘Ya,’ said Hugo. ‘Today I finish ze spring-cleanink. Now I ready to make Magic!’

  Pongwiffy broke into a broad grin. Hugo was back on the team, and now she had three of the things needed for Granny Malodour’s Wishing Water. Things were looking promising. The Locke of Goldene Hayre next.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ye Locke of Goldene Hayre

  This next part of the story concerns a certain princess. Her name is Honeydimple. I don’t suppose you’ll like her much.

  Honeydimple has big blue eyes and eyelashes which bat. She has a put-on lisp which she thinks makes her sound cute. She has a pert, turned-up nose and a rose-bud mouth. She wears spotlessly clean white dresses and socks, takes three baths a day and skips around a lot, saying, ‘Hello, treeth, hello, pretty birdth, good morning, mithter thun,’ and things like that. She also screams and kicks if she doesn’t get her way.

  I forgot to mention that she also has the traditional long, curly, golden Princess-type hair, which she orders her maid to brush one hundred times a day whilst she (Honeydimple) smiles complacently at herself in the mirror. The hair, you’ll have guessed, is the reason why she appears in this story at all.

  Now, on this particular day, Honeydimple, having changed into yet another clean white frock (the third that morning), decided to go for a stroll. It was boring in the palace, because everyone was spring-cleaning. Remembering that wild strawberries were sometimes to be found in the meadow beyond the wall at the bottom of the palace garden, off she tripped in her shiny white shoes.

  Honeydimple opened the gate in the wall and stepped through, taking care not to dirty her white dress. She then skipped off down the meadow, pointing her toes and tossing her hair and holding her dress out and dimpling prettily in case someone was watching her. At the same time, she carefully avoided the cowpats. It would never do to slip and spoil her lovely white frock. Seeing a couple of open-mouthed cows staring at her, Honeydimple outdid herself. She laughed with delight at the butterflies, stooped to pick a bunch of wild flowers, threw them away because they made her white gloves dirty, and sang a little song about happiness. At this point, the cows rolled their eyes to heaven and returned to cropping the grass.

  Deprived of her audience, Honeydimple gave a cross pout and flounced off to the wild strawberry patch.

  And what should be sitting in the middle of the strawberry patch but the cutest little Hamster imaginable, with darling ears and pink paws and an adorable, twitchy little nose!

  ‘A Hamthter! Oh, how thweet! Hello, cute little Hamthter. Are you lotht?’

  She stretched out her hand. Quick as a flash, the cute Hamster scuttled out of reach and hid coyly beneath a dandelion leaf, peeking out shyly and blinking its beady little eyes.

  ‘Coochy, coochy, come on, little Hamthter, don’t be thy,’ trilled Honeydimple, relentlessly advancing.

  Hugo (for, of course, it was he) ran a short way further, almost to where the Wood bordered the meadow, then stopped, looked back and simpered. Honeydimple hesitated.

  ‘You want me to follow you? Oh, but I muthn’t. Daddy thayth I muthn’t go into the Wood or I’ll be thure of a big thurprithe. There are Witcheth, you know. And a dirty old rubbith dump in the middle.’

  Swallowing his pride, Hugo sat on his back legs and washed his face with his paws, doing his best to look appealing.

  ‘Oh, how thweet, how perfectly thweet! Oh, pleathe, little Hamthter, let me pick you up. Come on, darling little Hamthter, come back to the palathe with me . . .’

  Honeydimple had nearly reached the edge of the Wood now. So intent was she on capturing Hugo that she was totally unprepared for what happened next. What happened next was, a large, smelly sack came down over her and All – to cut a long story short – Went Black.

  ‘Where am I? What happened? Have I been kidnapped?’ said Honeydimple, coming round some time later. The smelly sack was no longer over her head. This was a disadvantage in one way, for it meant that she could see things. And she wasn’t at all keen on what she saw.

  She was bound hand and foot, tied to a table leg in some sort of scruffy old hovel. A ragged curtain hung across the one window, and it was hard to make out much detail in the dim light. But there were some strange, clashing smells in the air – disinfectant, something like mouldering roses, and something else much more horrible.

  After a few exploratory sniffs, Honeydimple tracked down the source of the particularly horrible smell. It wafted from the bundle of rags dumped in the rocking chair opposite. Or was it a bundle of rags? No, perhaps it was a scarecrow. Hard to tell. As Honeydimple’s nose wrinkled in distaste, the bundle of rags/scarecrow spoke.

  ‘You’re in my hovel,’ it said. ‘And what happened was, I put a sack over your head.’

  Honeydimple opened her mouth and let out a shrill scream.

  ‘Do you mind?’ said the scarecrow. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache, had it since this morning. I think it’s the air-freshener. By the way, the answer to your third question is yes, you’ve been kidnapped.’

  Honeydimple thought about this for a moment, wept a bit, then asked the obvious question. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I happen to urgently need a lock of golden hair from a Princess’s head, that’s why. For a spell I’m working on.’

  As evidence, the scarecrow produced a large pair of scissors and opened and closed them a couple of times with a sinister chuckle.

  ‘Cut off a lock of my pretty hair? Thertainly not! Daddy would go mad!’ said Honeydimple.

  ‘Can’t be helped. I need it,’ said the scarecrow, who in fact wasn’t a scarecrow at all but a squalid-looking old woman wearing a filthy cardigan beneath an even filthier cloak. Through her tears, Honeydimple made out a tall pointed hat hanging from elastic on the back of the door.

  It seemed that she had fallen into the clutches of a Witch!

  ‘What’s more,’ continued the Witch, ‘I can’t cut it until tonight, when the moon comes up. The recipe particularly calls for fresh hair, see. So you’ll just have to be my guest for a while.’

  ‘Out of the quethtion,’ snapped Honeydimple. ‘I’m not thtaying another minute in thith dirty old dump, tho there.’

  If she hadn’t been lying down and tied up, she would have stamped her foot. As it was, she had to make do with scowling and sticking out her bottom lip.

  ‘You think this is dirty? You should have seen it before they cleaned it,’ said Pongwiffy with a nostalgic sigh. ‘Now, that was what you could call dirt. What you’re seeing is just a light coating of dust.’

  ‘Well, it’th not what I’m uthed to at all. Untie me immediately. When Daddy getth to hear about thith he’ll . . . oh, look! Thereth that little Hamthter! The one in the meadow! Tho you captured him too, you horrible old woman!’

  Hugo came through the doorway, stopped, bristled and gave her a dirty look which Honeydimple completely misinterpreted.

  ‘Oh, poor little thing! Look, he’th thivering with fear! Never mind, poor little Hamthter, we’ll get away from thith nathty old Witch, don’t you worry.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Not until full moon.’

  ‘I thuppothe you’re keeping him ath your thlave! Fanthy forthing a poor little creature like that to do all your dirty work. Never mind, little Hamthter, when Daddy rethcueth me, thith old Witch will be thrown into the dungeon, and I’ll buy you a nithe little cage all of your own. I shall call you Tiddleth and you shall be my pe—’

  ‘
Don’t say it!’ warned Pongwiffy. ‘Don’t use the “P” word. He doesn’t like it. Gets right up his nose.’

  Unlike Honeydimple, she recognised the warning signs. Tiddles was visibly swelling, and his eyes had gone red. His cheek pouches pulsed, his whiskers lashed and his fur stood on end. It was quite terrifying.

  ‘Come on, Tiddleth, don’t be afraid. Come over here and I’ll tell you all about life in the palathe,’ went on Honeydimple blithely. ‘You’ll love it, really you will. I thall buy you a little wheel and teach you trickth and – jutht a minute – what are you doing?’

  Hugo had suddenly snatched the scissors from Pongwiffy’s lap and was advancing on her with a face like thunder. Before she knew what was happening, Honeydimple was short of a lock of golden hair.

  Honeydimple gave a sharp shriek, clutched her head and burst into loud sobs.

  ‘Oh, bother you, Hugo!’ scolded Pongwiffy, leaping from her rocking chair. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be cut until tonight, you idiot!’

  ‘I not care! Zese insults I not take! She go now, or I bite ’er on ze ankle!’

  ‘Boo hoo hoo! What did he do that for, the horrible little beatht!’ bawled Honeydimple.

  ‘Well, it’s your own fault,’ scolded Pongwiffy. ‘He’s sensitive. I warned you not to make him mad. All that talk of wheels and stuff. Like a red rag to a bull.’

  ‘Boo hoo hoo! But I only thaid he could be my pet . . .’

  That did it.

  ‘I NOT PET! I VITCH FAMILIAR!’ screeched Hugo, beside himself with rage. And, as promised, he went for the ankle.

  ‘EEEEEEEAAAAAOOOOERRGR!’

  Later that day, the palace servants were surprised to hear a loud knocking at the front door, accompanied by a lot of distraught sobbing. Apparently, the noise had been going on for some time, but everyone was busy spring-cleaning and no one had heard it above the whirring of the vacuum cleaner.