by Kaye Umansky
‘Yes,’ said Ronald, nodding vigorously. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what she is doing. Absolutely.’
‘Wait there on the doorstep while I get my dressing gown,’ ordered Sourmuddle. ‘And don’t touch anything. I don’t trust you Wizards.’
‘Can’t I come in? It’s drizzling.’ Sourmuddle’s answer was to shut the door firmly in his face. Ronald turned his collar up, shuffled about on the step and allowed himself a little smile. Despite the weather, for once things were going quite well.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Caught in the Act
Things were also going quite well at Number One, Dump Edge. All the ingredients had been added to the brew, which was now bubbling nicely and giving off gratifyingly black, oily fumes.
‘Mmm. There’s something about the smell of Skunk Stock,’ said Pongwiffy, sniffing appreciatively and throwing in a cupful of Frogspawn. ‘Grab another handful of those Fly Droppings, Hugo. I like a nice bit of seasoning. Right, Sharky, what’s next?’
‘Sit with thy nose pointing due north and thy boots on ye wrong feet,’ read Sharkadder. ‘Recite thou ye following chant . . .’
‘Wait, wait, which way’s north?’
‘That way,’ said Sharkadder and Hugo, simultaneously pointing in opposite directions. At this point, both Brooms had to be brought in and consulted. (Brooms have a kind of inbuilt compass, which is situated approximately halfway up their sticks. They might not know much, but they certainly know north.)
It was very soon established that Pongwiffy had to sit looking out of the newly glazed window overlooking her beloved rubbish dump. The Dump had swollen considerably, mainly because of all the extra junk that Hugo and the Broom had removed from the hovel. Pongwiffy sighed as she looked out over it, wiped away a nostalgic tear, then concentrated on the business in hand.
‘Right, I’ve swapped my boots around. Where’s the chant? Pass me Granny’s Spell Book, Sharky. Hurry up, it’s nearly dawn and my feet are killing me.’
‘Why have I got to do all the menial tasks?’ grumbled Sharkadder, whose arm ached from chopping. ‘Why can’t I do the chant?’
But she did as she was told.
‘Right,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Here goes. Leap around the cauldron, all of you. Brooms included.’
‘Where does it say that?’ Sharkadder wanted to know. ‘Where in that spell does it say we have to leap?’
‘It doesn’t. I just think it adds to the atmosphere, don’t you? Just stop whining and do it, all right?’
Sighing, Sharkadder gave a small leap and waved her long arms around. Hugo did a spirited tap dance and the two Brooms hopped about obligingly, in a better mood now that they had been consulted about north. Pongwiffy waited a moment or two to let them all get into the swing of the thing, then began to chant in her best professional cackling voice.
‘Snap and crackle, scream and cackle,
Can’t catch cows with fishing tackle.
Bubble, brew, the way thou oughter,
Then turn into Wishing Water!’
She signalled the dancers to halt. Puffing a bit they jogged to a stop and listened. Nothing happened.
‘Where’s the cock crow?’ said Pongwiffy with a worried frown. ‘The cock’s supposed to crow.’
‘Keep going,’ panted Hugo. ‘Say it again. You supposed to continue ze chantink.’
‘It’d better work this time,’ said Sharkadder with a sniff. ‘I’m not leaping much more, I tell you. These shoes aren’t made for leaping.’
‘Snap and crackle, scream and cackle,
Can’t catch cows with fishing tackle.
Bubble, brew, the way thou . . .’
That did it. The brew gave a convulsive heave and boiled over. Where the brew met the fire, the flames turned green and blazed up dramatically.
‘Vow!’ said Hugo. ‘Zat amazink!’
There was a hissing and a fizzling and a spluttering and puffs of lime green smoke. Little crackles of shocking pink lightning arced above the cauldron. The startled cauldron-dancers drew back in alarm as pink and green sparks rained down and Pongwiffy hastily reached for a jug of flowers, just in case. There was an eye-watering, multicoloured eruption of light.
And then, far away, the cock crowed. Five times. Just like it was supposed to do. And with the first crow, the miniature firework display above the cauldron fizzled out, leaving an unappetising purplish liquid simmering sluggishly in the bottom.
Pongwiffy peered in and gave a deep sniff. ‘That’s it!’ she said excitedly. ‘Wishing Water! It’s come out just the way I remember it! Colour, smell, everything! This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Hugo, fetch me the ladle. I’m having first taste.’
‘Oh no, you’re not, Pongwiffy,’ said a voice from the doorway. It was accompanied by a theatrical rumble of thunder.
Everyone turned round. There stood Sourmuddle in fluffy tartan slippers and a quilted blue dressing gown that had seen better days. Behind her stood Snoop, rubbing his eyes and looking like he’d just woken up. And behind him stood Ronald, wearing a malicious little smile.
‘Oh, Sourmuddle, it’s you,’ said Pongwiffy with a gulp. ‘What a lovely surprise. Just in time to sample my new brew.’
‘I’ll take charge of that,’ said Sourmuddle sternly. ‘Making Magic behind my back indeed! After I’ve banned you! And what are you doing here, Sharkadder?’
‘Trying to stop her,’ explained Sharkadder. ‘I wasn’t dancing around the cauldron or anything. Oh, dear me, no.’
‘Hello, Aunt,’ said Ronald with a little smirk.
‘Ronald,’ said Sharkadder in a voice that could curdle milk. ‘Get lost.’
‘You know, I’m sure I recognise that smell,’ said Sourmuddle, sniffing. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘Granny Malodour’s Wishing Water,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I might as well tell you. You’ll find out for yourself in the end anyway.’
‘Really?’ said Sourmuddle with an interested gleam in her eye. ‘Granny Malodour’s Wishing Water? The real stuff? You’re sure?’
She shuffled over to the cauldron and peered in. Snoop, Sharkadder, Pongwiffy and Hugo clustered round and they all stood over it and stroked their chins, examining the unpleasant goo with professional interest.
‘Can I see?’ asked Ronald, trying to look over their shoulders.
‘No,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘This is Witch Business. Stand back.’
‘Go away, Spotty,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘And write a nice thank-you letter,’ suggested Sharkadder in a voice of steel.
Ronald flinched and stayed where he was.
‘You’re right, you know,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘It is Wishing Water. Once smelt, never forgotten.’
‘The very same,’ nodded Pongwiffy. ‘Made to Granny’s very own recipe, which I just happened to come across. Look. Here’s her Spell Book.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Sourmuddle with a little chuckle. ‘And I thought Granny Malodour’s recipe for Wishing Water was lost for ever.’
‘Why? Have you tried it, then, Sourmuddle?’ asked Sharkadder curiously.
‘Certainly I have. Granny used to send me over a bottle every Hallowe’en. Disgusting taste. But it worked.’
‘Why? What did you wish for?’ chorused Pongwiffy and Sharkadder together.
‘What d’you think? To become Grandwitch, of course. To be Mistress of the Coven and boss everybody about. And my wish came true. Which is why I’m ordering you to hurry up and stick that stuff in a bottle because I’m confiscating it right now.’
‘Oh, Sourmuddle, please!’ wailed Pongwiffy. ‘Please don’t do this! Not until you hear about my plan!’
‘Plan? What plan?’
‘The plan that’s going to benefit all of us. You see, I’m planning to enter Granny’s Wishing Water for the Spell of the Year Competition. There are some really good prizes this year. I wanted to share them with all my good friends. And bring honour to the Coven, of course.’
‘Really?’ said Sourmuddl
e, perking up. ‘What, you’d share the holiday and everything?’
‘Oh yes. I thought you might like to go on that, Sourmuddle. I know how much you like Sludgehaven-on-Sea. And I thought you could keep the silver cup on your mantelpiece. It’d look really nice up there.’
There was a long pause.
‘It would be nice if a Witch won this year,’ Sourmuddle said slowly.
‘It would, it certainly would,’ agreed Pongwiffy eagerly.
‘And I am on the jury . . .’ Sourmuddle said thoughtfully.
‘I know you are,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I know I can count on your vote, Sourmuddle.’
‘You mean we,’ Sharkadder reminded her. ‘It’s a joint entry, remember?’
‘Of course, rules are rules, Pongwiffy, and you’ll have to be punished,’ added Sourmuddle.
‘But not too severely,’ coaxed Pongwiffy. ‘Concentrate, Sourmuddle. Just hold on to that idea of a Witch win. Beating the Wizards. Just think of it.’
‘After that idiot with the pigeons up his jumper . . .’ said Sourmuddle reflectively.
‘You are so right,’ said Pongwiffy, shaking her head sadly. ‘He never should have got it. We all said so at the time.’
‘I’m tempted,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘What do you think, Snoop?’
‘I say,’ said Ronald from somewhere back in the shadows. ‘I say, Sourmuddle, look, what about this business of the cloaks and everything? Aren’t you going to . . . ?’
He tailed off, as would anyone who was being stared at by three Witches, a Demon and a Hamster.
‘Just a moment,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘I wish to consult with Snoop.’
They went into a conspiratorial huddle in the corner, then made up their minds.
‘I tell you what, Pongwiffy,’ said Sourmuddle briskly, ‘we’ll compromise. You stick it in a bottle and I’ll confiscate it, but you can have it back in time for the Spell of the Year Competition. How about that?’
‘All right,’ said Pongwiffy with a little sigh. ‘But can’t we even try it now? Just one sip? Just to make sure it works?’
‘Certainly not. You’re supposed to be being punished, not getting wishes. You’ll just have to wait.’
At that point, Ronald decided to put up a last protest.
‘Just a minute,’ he croaked feebly. ‘I really must protest.’
He really shouldn’t have. All he succeeded in doing was drawing attention to himself. To his horror, he was made to hold a bottle at pitchfork point while the disgustingly smelly brew – Wishing Water, as they called it – was poured in. The bottle was a small green demonade bottle with a very narrow neck. Quite a bit got spilt accidentally on purpose on his robes, he noticed.
‘You can go now,’ Sourmuddle told him, stoppering the bottle. ‘Thank you for your help, young Rodney. Don’t want to outstay your welcome, do you? Now, run along, run along. Say goodbye nicely to your aunt. Sharkadder, get rid of him, will you?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ said Sharkadder. ‘Goodbye, Ronald. I’d strongly advise you not to send me another dry-cleaning bill.’ She waved her hand casually, and the next thing he knew he was up to his neck in the ornate fountain in the grounds of the Wizards’ Clubhouse.
‘Very nice, Sharkadder, very neat,’ said Sourmuddle approvingly when the blue smoke that had been Ronald cleared. She pocketed the small green bottle. ‘Right, I’ve got the Wishing Water. Don’t worry, I’ll put it in a safe place. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get a bit of shut-eye. See you in the morning, Pongwiffy. When you come to clean my boots. Come on, Snoop.’
And with that, she was gone. There wasn’t even a puff of smoke.
‘See that?’ said Sharkadder admiringly. ‘Not even any smoke. No wonder she’s Grandwitch. Sometimes I think she can see what we’re up to from miles away. Hear us talking.’
‘’Course not,’ said Pongwiffy scornfully. ‘She’s not that good. And I wouldn’t mind betting she has a swig of that Wishing Water when she gets home.’
‘I heard that,’ said Sourmuddle’s disembodied voice.
‘You know what I think?’ said Pongwiffy hastily. ‘I think it’s time for bed. Goodnight, Sharky. Let yourself out, will you?’
In she climbed. Her boots were still on the wrong feet, but she didn’t even notice. She was so tired that she almost didn’t mind that the sheets were clean.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Spell of the Year
‘Your Royal Majesty, Honoured Members of the Judging Panel, Witches, Wizards, Skeletons, Spooks, Ghosts, Ghouls, Zombies, Monsters, Mummies, Demons, Trolls, Vampires, Banshees, Werewolves, Gnomes and last and most definitely least, Goblins – welcome, thrice welcome to Witchway Hall!’ boomed a rich voice from nowhere.
There was an excited buzz as the house lights dimmed. Conversation died away and was replaced by an expectant hush, during which a lone voice shouted out, ‘What about us Fiends?’
The heckler was ignored. Instead, there was a rising drum-roll followed by a clash of cymbals, and suddenly a portly Genie in a gaudy red turban and exotic pants materialised centre stage. He was dramatically lit by a single green spotlight, and he was smiling broadly.
‘Friends, my name is Ali Pali and I am your Master Of Ceremonies for the evening,’ he announced in oily tones and gave a low, sweeping bow.
Pongwiffy knew this particular Genie of old. She gave a start of recognition and clutched Sharkadder’s arm.
‘It’s him again! That Ali Pali! I don’t believe it! That Genie gets everywhere! What a nerve he’s got. Oi! You! You’ve got a nerve, you have, Pali!’
‘Ssh,’ hissed Sharkadder. ‘Do you want to spoil our chances?’
‘Tonight, O ladies and gentlemen,’ continued Ali Pali, ignoring them, ‘tonight we see the return of the ever-popular Spell of the Year Competition, sponsored this year by Genie Enterprises, manufacturers of Reeka Reeka Roses, the miracle air-freshener – as used by his gracious Majesty King Futtout.’
Ali Pali beamed approvingly at King Futtout, who sat miserably in the middle of the Judging Panel. The Judging Panel were arranged in a row behind the very same trestle table that the Witches had used for their Emergency Meeting. Tonight it bristled with scorecards, pencils, notepads, water jugs and glasses. On a high shelf nearby was the coveted silver cup.
The front row of the stalls was taken up by hopeful Witch contestants and their Familiars. The second row contained the competing Wizards, who spent a lot of time laughing confidently and kicking the backs of the seats in front (which we all know is most irritating).
Row Three was occupied by the rest of the contenders who didn’t fall into either camp, but who considered themselves no slouches when it came to spell-casting. These consisted mostly of assorted Wise men and women, Palm Readers, Tree Demons, Pixies and the odd Gnome, and they spent most of their time complaining about the double row of tall hats that blocked their view of the stage.
The rest of the seats were occupied by the general public. (Although that’s probably too polite a name for them.)
‘I trust Your Majesty has no objection to my mentioning your royal self in connection with this wonderful product?’ Ali Pali added smoothly.
‘Erm?’ said King Futtout, blushing unhappily. ‘Erm . . . no, no, of course not . . . erm.’
‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful that you could spare us some of your very valuable time, Sire. Let’s have a big hand for His Majesty the King!’
There was a bit of scattered applause and one or two boos. Opinion was divided as to whether or not King Futtout should be on the Judging Panel. After all, he was hardly an expert on Magic. On the other hand, it didn’t hurt to keep the local royalty sweet. As Rory pointed out, you never knew when you might need to use the palace swimming pool.
For his part, King Futtout would never have come. Spell competitions just weren’t his thing. All those Witches in the audience gave him the shivers. Brr! He was only there because Beryl and Honeydimple had forced him.
(‘You
tell them,’ they had said. ‘You tell those Witches they can’t get away with it.’ And they had said a lot more along the same lines.)
Futtout had rather hoped to forge a sick note and send along his new Wizard to take his place – but unfortunately, Ronald the Magnificent was himself confined to his turret with a sudden mysterious cold.
‘And now, without more ado, let me introduce the other six members of our esteemed Judging Panel,’ continued Ali Pali.
‘Firstly, weighing in at over two hundred years, we have Grandwitch Sourmuddle, Mistress of the Witchway Wood Coven!’
As one, the Witches jumped on the seats, threw their hats in the air, hurled popcorn around and generally misbehaved. Bats zoomed about, stink-bombs were let off, ‘Up The Witches’ flags were raised, gongs were beaten, Familiars jived in the aisles – it was simply shocking.
‘Hooray!’
‘Whoopee! You show ’em, Sourmuddle!’
‘Attawitch!’
Despite Ali Pali’s pleas, Sourmuddle’s supporters refused to sit down until their leader put her knitting away, stood up and gave a queenly wave. The non-Witches in the audience sighed and tutted and looked pointedly at their watches.
‘And of course, as always, we have the Wizards’ representative, the Venerable Harold the Hoodwinker!’ announced Ali Pali.
It was now the Wizards’ turn to clap and cheer.
‘Rah! Rah!’ they brayed. ‘Good old Harold!’
Nobody else bothered. Harold the Hoodwinker was a permanent fixture on these occasions. The Wizards always wheeled him out because, although he hadn’t hoodwinked anyone for years, he was the oldest Club member and entitled to a bit of respect.
‘And now, a favourite with all you ladies – Scott Sinister, famous star of stage and screen!’
A tall, thin, pale character in silly sunglasses waved a limp hand, and the audience shouted and clapped enthusiastically. Several of the Banshees in the audience screamed so hard they had to be taken out. A small, bad-tempered Tree Demon brandishing a huge pair of scissors rushed up and menacingly demanded an autograph. Scott Sinister was obviously a popular choice. (Although not with King Futtout, who had at one point nervously asked him to pass the water jug, only to be ignored.)