More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  We’ll bump the trees

  And hurt our knees

  And then we’ll stub our toe.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ hissed Pongwiffy, suddenly alert and cured of all queasiness. ‘What have we here?’

  ‘Goblins!’ gloated Hugo, also perking up considerably. ‘Ve in luck, Mistress. Vat ve do? Jump out at zem and grab ze bobbles off zeir ’ats?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself. We’ve got to be subtle. Stay hidden. I want to watch. I wonder why they’re out hunting today? It’s not Tuesday, is it?’

  (Tuesday is the Goblins’ traditional hunting night. They rarely come down into Witchway Wood at any other time, because Witches and Goblins don’t like each other. The Witches think the Goblins are stupid and the Goblins think the Witches are spiteful. They both have a point.)

  The Goblins rounded the corner, and further conversation was impossible. Apart from anything else, you couldn’t hear yourself speak above the dreadful singing.

  ‘A-hunting we will go,’ warbled the Goblins.

  ‘A-hunting we will go,

  We’ll trip on logs

  And drown in bogs

  And then . . .’

  ‘Halt!’ shouted the Goblin at the front, stopping suddenly. There was a squeezed concertina effect as the Goblins piled up on each other, shouting alarmed cries of ‘What happenin’ up front there, Plugugly?’ and ‘Is we attacked?’

  ‘I is gettin’ tired o’ dis song,’ explained Plugugly, who was the Goblin at the front. He usually got stuck at the front, not because of his powers of leadership but because he was the biggest and therefore best equipped to carve a path when the going got rough. Like a snowplough, but more stupid.

  ‘What you mean, tired of it?’ objected Eyesore. ‘ ’Ow can you be tired of it?’

  ‘Well, I am,’ insisted Plugugly stubbornly. ‘It depressin’ me. All dis talk o’ hurtin’ knees and fallin’ in bogs an’ dat. I fink we should sing anudder one. Fer a change.’

  ‘We don’t know anuvver huntin’ song,’ pointed out Hog.

  ‘Ah, but we ain’t really goin’ huntin’, so it don’t ’ave ter be a huntin’ song, do it?’ remarked Slopbucket, who was immediately rounded on and soundly criticised.

  ‘Ssh! Idiot!’

  ‘We said we wasn’t goin’ ter say nuffin, remember?’

  ‘ ’E’s blown the gaff!’

  ‘Talk about mouf, you could lose a battleship in ’is mouf!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Slopbucket, going red, aware of his indiscretion the minute he had said it. ‘Slipped out. Sorry.’

  ‘We could sing “ ’Ere We Go”,’ suggested young Sproggit, hopping from boot to boot in his eagerness. ‘One o’ my favourites, that.’

  ‘ ’Ow’s it go again?’ asked Hog. ‘I’ve forgotten the words.’

  ‘ ’Ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go,’ supplied Sproggit. ‘ ’Ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go-oh, ’ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go-oh, ’ere we go . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Hog. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘Acherly, there ain’t no point in singin’ anyfin’,’ remarked Stinkwart. ‘ ’Cos we’ve arrived. We’re ’ere. ’Oo’s gonna ring the bell?’

  This was the cue for all the Goblins to huddle together in terror and try to push each other to the front. Apparently, no one wanted to ring the bell.

  ‘Vat zey do?’ whispered Hugo from behind his grass. ‘Vy zey frightened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Pongwiffy. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve suddenly recognised that tree over there! The tall one with the rope ladder and the stripy pole sticking out, see? Come to think of it, that pole never used to be there. But it’s definitely the same tree. There’s a tree house right up the top of that tree, and I happen to know who lives there.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘A nasty little Tree Demon, that’s who. Did I ever tell you about the awful experience I had when I was house-hunting? It was all Sharkadder’s fault. This is before your time, of course . . .’

  ‘Ssh!’ said Hugo. ‘Look.’

  By some mysterious process known as Pushing, the Goblins had unanimously elected Plugugly as official bell-ringer. Unwillingly, with much hesitation and backward glancing, he approached the tall tree with the rope ladder, the one that Pongwiffy recognised despite the addition of the mysterious striped pole, and gave the bell-rope that hung there a reluctant little tug. At once, an almighty clanging sounded high up in the branches. Plugugly staggered back a step, dropped the bell-rope as if scalded and ran back to the doubtful safety of the group.

  ‘Coming, sir, coming, sir, just one minute if you please!’ came the bad-tempered screech from on high.

  The foot of the rope ladder shook, there was a flash of green, and suddenly a small Tree Demon was standing at the foot of the tree. He wore a white coat with a large breast pocket which contained an assortment of vicious-looking razors, scissors and combs. His pinched green face wore an expression of extreme irritation.

  ‘Yes?’ he shrieked. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ gasped Pongwiffy. ‘Now I’ve seen everything! The little stinker’s gone and set himself up as a Demon Barber!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ye Bobble off Ye Hat of a Gobline

  ‘And how would sir like it?’ asked the Tree Demon, tapping his foot, rolling his eyes and whetting his razor impatiently.

  Plugugly cleared his throat unhappily and didn’t say a thing. He had been forced at comb-point to sit on a stump in the middle of the glade. He had been draped in a towel. The traditional saucepan he always wore on his head had been forcibly removed and placed out of reach on a nearby branch. He felt terribly insecure without it.

  ‘Well?’ prompted the Tree Demon, who didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  Plugugly licked his lips and tried to think whilst the Tree Demon climbed up behind him on a handy log and clashed a huge pair of scissors experimentally in the air. The rest of the Goblins stood around and stared in open-mouthed horror.

  (Goblins have a terrible fear of having their hair cut. For them, having their hair cut is sissy stuff which falls into the same category as washing. They hate it so much, they only do it once a year. When the time of the Haircut rolls round again, they get into a terrible state. They are so convinced that everyone will laugh at them that they try to keep the whole venture undercover. That’s why they were pretending to be going hunting, so no one would know what they were up to.)

  ‘Come along, come along, come along, come along, sir, if you please!’ spat the Tree Demon. As a hairdresser, his sinkside manner left a lot to be desired. ‘There are other gentlemen waiting, you know.’

  ‘I want it long,’ Plugugly suddenly burst out. ‘Long an’ greasy!’

  ‘I see,’ nodded the Tree Demon, stroking his chin professionally. ‘Long and greasy. Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Sideburns,’ instructed Plugugly, suddenly hopeful, adding, ‘an’ one o’ dem wotsits – quiffs.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ said the Tree Demon.

  The scissors flashed, and in seconds Plugugly was the horrified owner of the shortest back and sides it is possible to have without being pronounced clinically bald. The general effect was of huge jug-handles stuck on either side of a crimson pimple. The watching Goblins all gasped, pointed, then disloyally fell about laughing.

  Behind their bush, Pongwiffy and Hugo did the same.

  ‘There we are, sir,’ said the Tree Demon, simultaneously flashing a mirror around, snatching the towel away and picking Plugugly’s pocket. ‘Very nice, very smart, that. Don’t forget your saucepan, sir. Pay on your way out. Next!’

  The Goblins immediately sobered up. Nobody wanted to be next.

  ‘You,’ hissed the Tree Demon, pointing at Lardo, who had been laughing louder than anyone.

  ‘Me?’ gulped Lardo, quaking. (He probably had an even bigger fear of being parted from his hat than
the rest of the Goblins. It was his comforter. He needed it. He sucked the bobble when he went to sleep. He had lost it once, and all sorts of bad things had happened.)

  ‘Yes, you! The short, fat, stupid one. Take your hat off, hang it on the branch and get over here. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘This is it,’ mouthed Pongwiffy to Hugo. ‘Now’s our chance!’

  Poor Lardo. Slowly he shuffled forward, removed his hat with trembling hands and hung it carefully on the branch next to Plugugly’s saucepan, as instructed. He then reluctantly approached the dreaded stump where the scissor-happy Tree Demon was holding out the towel and flapping it like a matador.

  ‘What’s it to be, sir?’ asked the Tree Demon, tucking Lardo up firmly and menacing him with a large pot of shaving cream. ‘The Usual?’

  Lardo whispered something.

  ‘Speak up, sir, speak up if you please!’ said the Tree Demon.

  ‘Curls,’ said Lardo, and blushed.

  ‘Certainly, certainly. Would that be golden curls?’

  Lardo confirmed that, yes, golden curls would be most acceptable.

  ‘Golden curls coming right up, sir. Shocking weather we been having,’ observed the Tree Demon, and went to work. In no time at all, Lardo emerged with the second short back and sides of the day. This time, it was Plugugly’s turn to laugh until he was sick.

  ‘There we are, sir, lovely cut, that!’ insisted the Tree Demon, trying to force Lardo to look at himself in the mirror.

  Lardo gave a little sob, threw off the towel and ran the gauntlet past the hysterical Goblins to where his beloved hat hung on the tree. He snatched it up and was about to ram it on, when he suddenly noticed something.

  ‘All right, who’s got it?’ he asked plaintively. ‘Enough’s enough. You’ve gone too far this time. Who’s the joker what’s taken me bobble? Eh? Eh?’

  Needless to say, nobody owned up.

  Back at Number One, Dump Edge, Pongwiffy and Hugo were celebrating. Pongwiffy was dancing on the table doing a wild Spanish dance, Lardo’s bobble clutched between her teeth like a wilting rose.

  ‘We got it! We got the bobble!’ she crowed. ‘I just can’t believe our luck, Hugo. It’s almost as though it’s meant to be. Put the kettle on. I fancy a huge mug of bogwater with three sugars to celebrate. No sign of Ag and Bag. Or Sharky and Scrofula, for that matter. I wonder where they’ve all got to?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Hugo. ‘It look like ze twins leave in hurry. Zey not drink ze bogwater. Only two bites out of rock cakes.’

  (In fact, the twins were currently sitting in a dentist’s waiting room. Bagaggle was waiting to have a piece of Pongwiffy’s rock cake chiselled from between her teeth, and Agglebag was holding her hand and reading out soothing horoscopes from old back issues of Witches’ Realm.)

  ‘They’ve left the summons, though,’ said Pongwiffy, pointing at the ominous brown envelope with a little sigh. There was always something that had to spoil things.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Hugo curiously.

  Pongwiffy carefully placed the precious bobble in her Magic cupboard, alongside Dudley’s whisker, the quicksand, Barry’s feather and Honeydimple’s hair. She then picked up the brown envelope and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper. It said: I SUMMON YOU TO APPEAR AT TONIGHT’S MEETING. THAT’S AN ORDER!

  ‘Huh,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What a cheek. Sourmuddle’s really throwing her weight around these days. You know what I’m going to do about that, don’t you?’

  ‘Vat?’ asked Hugo, eyes round.

  ‘Go to the Meeting,’ said Pongwiffy lamely.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Banned

  Witchway Hall is the focal point of community life in Witchway Wood. It is used for parties, ping-pong and protest meetings. It is also used for fund-raising events and theatrical performances. In a typical week, there might be a rabble-rousing meeting of the Hamsters Are Angry Movement (HAM) chaired by Hugo, the finals of the Lady Ghouls’ Darts Championships, a Witchway Rhythm Boys’ practice session, Troll country dancing (interesting), a Zombie jumble sale, a Banshee concert, a rehearsal of the Skeleton Amateur Dramatics Society (SAD), a Friends Of the Goblins Reunion Dinner (always poorly attended) and the ever-popular Beginners’ Class in Demon Basket Weaving run by Snoop on wet Sunday afternoons.

  In view of its popularity, the Witches were lucky to get Witchway Hall at such short notice. Normally, at midnight on a Tuesday, the Gnome Debating Society would have been in full swing. Well, actually, it wasn’t so much luck. It was more that Snoop had a few words in the chief Gnome Debater’s ear. Nothing unpleasant, you understand, just a few quiet words about Witches and Tuesday Nights and the Importance Of Emergency Meetings and the Inconvenience Of Being Turned Into A Frog, and so on.

  For once, the chief Gnome Debater didn’t argue.

  So. There they were in Witchway Hall. It was midnight, it looked like rain, just as Sourmuddle had predicted, and the Emergency Meeting was due to start.

  Thirteen chairs had been set around the long trestle table. Eleven were already occupied by Witches’ bums. Well, to be strictly correct, only nine had actual bums on. Witch Gaga was standing on her head on the tenth, and Witch Macabre wasn’t sitting down yet. But her bagpipes were, which was almost as bad. Various Witch Familiars were skulking, slithering and generally milling around, according to their disposition.

  Sourmuddle hadn’t yet arrived.

  There was also no sign of Pongwiffy.

  Sharkadder and Scrofula had come early and grabbed the seats on either side of Sourmuddle’s chair. It was plain that they were terribly put out. They both sat in stony silence with their arms folded and their noses in the air, refusing to join in the general chit-chat, and Barry and Dudley did likewise. All about them buzzed tantalising talk of spells and spring-cleaning and recipes and who was hot favourite to win the Spell of the Year Competition and the trouble with Brooms today, and so on, but nothing could tempt them to relax. As the injured parties, they were determined to milk the Emergency Meeting for all it was worth.

  To be sure, Scrofula and Barry didn’t look well at all. Scrofula’s hair was greasier than ever, and her shoulders looked like the wastes of Greenland. Barry hunched mournfully on the back of her chair and tried to ignore the draught around his rear end. Every so often he shook his head slowly, sighed, said, ‘Why me?’ in a small, dry voice, then gave a pathetic little cough. On top of everything, he had another cold coming on.

  In contrast, Sharkadder was rather enjoying all the drama. She had gone to a great deal of trouble to make herself up as a tragic victim. She was all in black, and had painted dark panda shadows beneath her eyes. Every so often she dabbed at them dramatically with a black lace hanky. Dead Eye Dudley crouched vengefully at her feet, muttering dark curses and glaring balefully around, daring anyone to say one word, just one word, that’s all, about his swollen cheek.

  Agglebag and Bagaggle were there, telling a dental horror story to anyone who cared to listen. That didn’t include Greymatter, who was sitting next to them, busily writing a poem in an old exercise book. Speks, her Owl Familiar, peered thoughtfully over her shoulder and made creative suggestions every so often.

  ‘. . . and we think Pongwiffy left the rock cakes to tempt us on purpose, so that Bag would break her tooth!’ finished up Agglebag. ‘What do you think, Greymatter?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Greymatter. ‘What did you say, Agglebag? I’m trying to write a poem here, if you don’t mind.’

  Further down the table, Sludgegooey, Ratsnappy and Bendyshanks were playing cards. Bonidle, as always, was collapsed face down on the table, fast asleep. Over by the door, Witch Macabre was having a loud argument with the caretaker, a sullen Troll by the name of Clifford. The row appeared to be about the state of the tea urn, although they were both bellowing so loudly no one could be sure.

  Several curious onlookers skulked in the shadowy background. A couple of Skeletons lurked in the darkness of the back stalls.
A few Ghouls and the odd Gnome were attempting to mingle with the Familiars and make themselves inconspicuous. There was nothing like a good Emergency Meeting to bring them all out of the woodwork.

  ‘All right, settle down, settle down!’ Sourmuddle came bustling in with a flask, a bag of boiled sweets, her reading glasses and the Rule Book. Snoop walked behind carrying a bin liner full of essentials.

  ‘No, no, don’t bother to stand,’ ordered Sourmuddle, as a few Witches made a half-hearted attempt to rise. ‘This isn’t a proper Coven Meeting, so we can dispense with the formalities. It says so in the Rule Book. Just sit up straight and shut up. All non-Witches out!’

  Immediate consternation in the shadows. Sourmuddle held firm.

  ‘Yes, I’m talking to you Ghouls over there. And you lot hiding in the back stalls – don’t think I can’t see you. This is a private meeting. Witches and Witch Familiars only.’

  ‘It doesn’t say so on the poster,’ protested a Gnome.

  ‘I don’t care about the poster,’ said Sourmuddle firmly. ‘I make the rules around here. Out. Make sure they go, Macabre. That includes you, Clifford. By the way, I hope you’ve cleaned out that tea urn?’

  Grumbling, the banished ones were chased from the hall by Witch Macabre, to a chorus of catcalls, raspberries and mocking laughter.

  ‘Right,’ said Sourmuddle as soon as the door had closed behind them. ‘Are we all here? Then sit down, Macabre, and let’s get cracking.’

  ‘I don’t believe we are all here actually, Sourmuddle,’ remarked Sharkadder, pointing to the one remaining empty chair. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I’m right in saying that Pongwiffy’s not here. Which is exactly what Scrofula and I expected, of course, and why we’re disappointed you didn’t give us permission to go round and pulverise her this afternoon, like we wanted to. Right, Scrofula?’

  ‘Right, Sharkadder.’

  ‘Sit down, Sharkadder. We’ll conduct this Meeting in a proper manner,’ ordered Sourmuddle sharply. ‘Pongwiffy’s got a right to tell us her side of the story. We’ve only got your word for it that she stole Dudley’s whisker to put in some secret spell or other.’