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More Pongwiffy Stories Page 11

by Kaye Umansky


  ‘Oh. Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ admitted Sharkadder, tossing her hair and treating the riotous audience to a sudden, dazzling smile.

  ‘So, can I get on with what I was saying?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ purred Sharkadder, placing a hand on a hip and striking the sort of showy pose she imagined a glamorous assistant might strike.

  ‘Good. Ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, before you, in this humble little bottle, you see the winning potion of this year’s Spell of the Year Competition. For this little bottle contains a sample of none other than the legendary Wishing Water, made to Granny Malodour’s very own recipe!’

  There was a surprised pause, followed by some excited whispering and a fair amount of disbelieving laughter. Granny Malodour’s famous Wishing Water, eh? A likely story. Why, everyone knew that the recipe had been lost in the mists of time.

  ‘Go ahead, laugh!’ Pongwiffy told them. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces in a minute. My lovely assistant, Sharkadder, will now offer each of the Judges a small amount of this amazing potion. A wish each. That’s what they get. And if their wishes don’t come true, my lovely assistant will personally eat her pointy hat. Sharp end first. That’s how confident I am of this spell.’

  ‘Hang on there, just a minute . . .’ objected the lovely assistant. But Pongwiffy was in full swing, and there was no stopping her.

  ‘Just to ensure there is no cheating, I will ask the Judges to write down a brief description of their wish. Think carefully, now. This is the chance of a lifetime.’

  The Judging Panel thought carefully. One wish. The chance of a lifetime. They mustn’t mess this up.

  King Futtout thought longingly of becoming a hermit and living in a cave on a mountain, far from the trappings of power; Scott Sinister dreamed of rave reviews of his latest film (Revenge of the Killer Poodles); Sourmuddle wished her memory was better, then forgot; the Venerable Harold the Hoodwinker wished he was home in bed; Dunfer Malpractiss had a fleeting vision of thousands of highly successful Malpractiss Magic Ltd Megastores straddling the globe and Pierre de Gingerbeard wished for the thousandth time that Sharkadder wasn’t his cousin. Batty Bob and his Boring Birds didn’t wish for anything, because they were in the toilet at the time.

  And then, as Pongwiffy instructed, the Judges (all except Bob) wrote their wishes down whilst Sharkadder poured out a few drops of the precious liquid into their water glasses.

  ‘Right,’ said Pongwiffy after the pouring had been completed and the pieces of paper collected up. ‘The wishes are as follows: Cave, Fame, Good Memory, Bed, Money, Not To Be Related To Sharkadder. Could we have a drum-roll, please? Silence, everyone. The Judges are about to sample the Wishing Water. Ready, Judges? All together now . . . Bottoms Up!’

  The Witchway Rhythm Boys played something vaguely tension-building and the audience held their breath as the panel raised their glasses and drank. There was a long pause.

  ‘Tastes like demonade to me,’ said Scott Sinister with a shrug.

  ‘What?’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What did you say, Scott?’

  ‘I said it tastes like ordinary demonade. Don’t you agree?’ he asked his fellow Judges, who chorused their agreement.

  ‘It’s nothing like Granny’s Wishing Water, Pongwiffy,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘And I can’t remember what I wished for, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t got it. Has anybody here got their wish?’

  The Judging Panel shook their heads. ‘No.’ Sadly no one had got their wish.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ wailed Pongwiffy, wringing her hands. ‘What’s happened? I made it to the exact recipe. It’s got to be right. Surely somebody got their wish?’

  Then it happened. Suddenly, without any warning, something soft and green plopped on her head. This was followed by another one, only this time it was blue. Then a tartan one. And then . . . it began to rain bobbles! Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions and trillions and zillions of them. All different colours and different sizes. Big bright jolly yellow ones and pretty little pale pink ones. Sensible navy ones and lurid multicoloured ones. It was a bobble blizzard.

  Softly fell the bobbles on to the heads and shoulders of the bewildered audience, rolling off and bouncing in the aisles, filling up the orchestra pit, settling in niches and corners, piling up in drifts against the exit doors. In seconds, everyone was ankle-deep in them – and still they kept coming.

  ‘Don’t panic! Stay calm!’ instructed Ali Pali, before vanishing in a green puff.

  People instantly panicked and made for the exits. King Futtout lost his crown, Sourmuddle’s corns took a severe bashing, the trestle table was overturned and somebody stole the silver cup. The tide of bobbles rose higher by the second, and several Dwarfs and small Gnomes were already waist-deep and struggling.

  Never-ending bobbles. Raining down. Filling up the world.

  Now, whoever could have wished for that?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Lovely Surprise

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my fault,’ muttered Pongwiffy for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ argued Sharkadder. ‘Everyone says so, don’t they, Hugo? There won’t be any Spell of the Year Competitions ever again, and it’s all your fault. Why don’t you admit it? Pass the frogs, please.’

  It was the following day. They were sitting in Pongwiffy’s unnaturally clean hovel. Sharkadder had brought over a tin of ginger frogs, and they were morosely dunking them in bogwater whilst raking over recent events in the hope of finding someone to blame.

  ‘You should have noticed it wasn’t Wishing Water,’ grumbled Pongwiffy. ‘You should have noticed when you poured it out. Some assistant you turned out to be.’

  ‘Oh yes? And who got the bottles muddled in the first place? Honestly, the ingratitude of it! That’s the last time I lend you my handbag, Pongwiffy. And the last time I help you out with your rotten old spells.’

  ‘Hugo should have noticed, then,’ sulked Pongwiffy. ‘What’s the point of having a Familiar if he doesn’t notice things?’

  ‘I did,’ objected Hugo. ‘I shout from ze stalls. I shout, “Mistress, you got ze wrong bottle.” But you no hear.’

  There was a long pause. Then, ‘It’s the waste,’ Pongwiffy said gloomily. ‘That’s what I can’t get over. The waste of a perfectly good bottle of Wishing Water. And for what? So some stupid Goblin can have a lifetime’s supply of bobbles. Bobbles! I ask you.’

  ‘That’s Goblins for you,’ agreed Sharkadder.

  ‘All that trouble, and I didn’t even get to taste it.’

  There was an even longer pause.

  ‘I think I’m going to cry,’ said Pongwiffy.

  ‘Oh, cheer up, Pong, do,’ said Sharkadder, giving her a little pat on the shoulder. ‘You’ve still got the recipe. You can always make some more.’

  ‘What, after all the trouble I went to the first time? Not likely. It was all for nothing and I nearly killed myself getting all those ingredients. And nobody likes me any more.’

  ‘I do,’ said Sharkadder kindly.

  ‘Me too,’ said Hugo.

  ‘No, you don’t. You were right. It was all my fault. It was all my fault that the audience stampeded and the cup got stolen and everything. Everyone hates me now. I’m the most unpopular Witch in the Coven.’

  ‘W-e-ll – yes,’ admitted Sharkadder. ‘Yes, you are. But that’s nothing new. And you’re still my best friend,’ she added loyally.

  ‘And mine,’ nodded Hugo.

  ‘Really? You mean it?’ sniffed Pongwiffy.

  ‘Certainly we do. And just to prove it, we’ve got something for you, haven’t we, Hugo?’

  Sharkadder reached for her handbag and took something out. She handed it to Pongwiffy with an air of triumph.

  ‘There. For you. It’s the bottle of Wishing Water. Hugo took it from Lardo before he could finish it. We saved it for you. There’s just enough drops left in there for a wish, I’d say.’

>   ‘He did? You did? There is? You mean, I’m going to sample Granny’s Wishing Water after all?’ Pongwiffy took the bottle with trembling fingers. ‘But why didn’t you tell me? Why wait till now?’

  ‘We were waiting to hear you say it was all your fault,’ explained Sharkadder. ‘We wanted to see you grovel before springing this lovely surprise on you. Are you pleased?’

  ‘Pleased? I’ll say I’m pleased. Thanks, you two. Right, here goes. I’m going to make my wish. But first, Granny’s Magic words . . . Bottoms Up!’

  Eagerly, she raised the almost empty demonade bottle and drained it. Sharkadder and Hugo watched, eyes popping, as she lowered it and made a face.

  ‘Yuck,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Yep. That’s Wishing Water all right. Pass me a ginger frog, Hugo. I need it to take the taste away.’

  ‘Vat you vish for, Mistress?’ asked Hugo eagerly.

  ‘Wait. Be patient. You’ll find out.’

  They waited. And waited. Sharkadder was just about to remark that Wishing Water didn’t appear to be all that it was cracked up to be, when finally, something happened.

  A sudden wind blew up.

  At the same time, a low rumbling noise came from outside. There were crashings and slitherings, clankings and clatterings, tinklings and jinglings. There was also a very nasty smell in the air.

  The hovel door exploded open – and in flowed a mighty river of rubbish! It was like a dam bursting. Everything that Hugo and the Broom had worked so hard to get rid of came pouring back in, bringing with it a lot of extra dirt and debris that hadn’t even been there in the first place.

  Sharkadder shrieked, snatched up her skirts and leapt on the table for safety. Pongwiffy and Hugo hastily joined her, and all three of them huddled together and watched in amazement as the sea of rubbish slowly reclaimed the hovel.

  All Pongwiffy’s cast-offs were there – the old socks, the broken glasses, the bits of cheese, the maggot collection, the cauldron, the teddy, the hot-water bottle, the . . . well, you know. All of it.

  After oozing around all over the floor for a bit, the rubbish began to separate out into recognisable bits. The various components made for theirold,familiarnooksandcrannieswheretheysettled comfortably, obviously pleased to be back home again.

  The old newspapers flapped their pages and flew clumsily up to a high shelf, where they formed themselves into untidy piles. The hot-water bottle gave a little leap and hung itself on a nail in the wall.

  Sharkadder, Pongwiffy and Hugo ducked as crumbling old spell books with half the pages missing whizzed past their ears and hurled themselves back into the bookcase any old how.

  The sofa came crashing back in, broken springs waving jauntily, and settled in its old place with a proprietorial air. Drawers slid open, waiting for the dozens of odd socks and old cardigans to crawl back into them. A disgracefully filthy sheet spread itself on the bed (over the nice clean one), tucked itself in (badly) and waited for its coating of biscuit crumbs to arrive.

  All the pieces of broken, dirty china made for the sink, and soon the draining board was piled high. While all this was going on, the window cracked and dirtied itself, cobwebs sneaked back over the ceiling and dust rained down in a steady shower.

  Outside, weeds grew up the walls and all the fresh paint peeled off the door. At the same time, a party of starved-looking Spiders came wandering up the garden path, crying, ‘How about this, Ma. It looks even worse than the last place. Oh, my legs, it is the last place! How come?’

  The Broom, aware that there was some sort of emergency, came whizzing in from outside, took one look at the state of the floor and promptly passed out.

  When the dust had finally settled and the Spiders had unpacked and the last dead plant had finished arranging itself tastefully on the window sill, Sharkadder, Pongwiffy and Hugo slowly climbed down from the table.

  ‘So,’ said Sharkadder, tutting and looking around. ‘This is your wish, is it, Pongwiffy? To live in squalor.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Pongwiffy, eyes glowing. ‘It suits my personality, don’t you think? I’ve been very unhappy these last two weeks. It just wasn’t my own little hovel any more, not since it was spring-cleaned. I’m sorry, Hugo. After all your hard work.’ Hugo gave a little shrug.

  ‘Is OK. After all, you vitch of dirty ’abits. I should know better. Besides, I sorta missed ze Spiders, you know?’

  Up above, lots of little legs clapped together approvingly, and Gerald, the smallest Spider, took a dive into Hugo’s bedside glass of water, out of sheer high spirits.

  Turn the page for another Pongwiffy adventure!

  PROLOGUE

  In Witchway Wood, there is no noise. Only the faint hissing of rain falling lightly on to waterlogged leaves and sodden branches. No noise at all except . . .

  Except the rhythmic sound of bicycle wheels sloshing through mud, accompanied by some enthusiastic bell dinging and a burst of cheerily horrible singing. And through the trees comes a small, furry Thing in a Moonmad T-shirt, sporting a bright yellow baseball cap and with a large bag slung over its shoulder.

  It is the Paper Thing.

  The Paper Thing really loves its job. It has taken ages to master all the necessary skills and subtle tricks of the trade, such as the art of Balancing the Bike, the art of Stopping, the art of Steering, the art of Fiddling the Takings and so on – but my goodness, it was worth it. Not only did it get paid to zoom around like a maniac all day, IT GOT A FREE YELLOW CAP! The Thing adores its cap. It wears it to bed sometimes.

  The Thing sings cheerily to itself as it cycles on, splattering mud all over a couple of glum rabbits who have unwisely decided to eat out this wet morning. ‘Ha, caught you on the hop there, carrot crunchers! Yahoo!’

  It rounds the corner, screeches to a halt, dismounts and throws its bike in a puddle (not yet having mastered the art of Propping). It rummages in its bag and brings out a cellophane-wrapped magazine. Or is it? No, in fact closer inspection reveals it to be a brightly coloured holiday brochure! It is addressed to The Occupier, The Hovel, Number One, Dump Edge, Witchway Wood. The Paper Thing stares in puzzlement at the front cover on which a group of grinning Banshees in bathing costumes are leaping in an azure blue sea. Splashed across the top, in a great sunburst, are the words:

  SLUDGEHAVEN-ON-SEA

  Where Fun, Excitement and Olde Worlde Charm Combine to Create that Special Holiday Magic!

  The Thing is puzzled because exotic holiday brochures are seldom seen in Witchway Wood. Newspapers, yes. Spell catalogues, yes. Badly wrapped newspaper parcels full of soggy herbs, yes. Final reminders, definitely. But holiday brochures?

  After a long inspection, the Paper Thing gives a shrug, rummages deep in its bag and brings out a stout wooden clothes peg which it proceeds to clip on to its nose. It has delivered to this particular Occupier before.

  It is prepared

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cooped Up

  In Number One, Dump Edge, a heavy silence reigned. It was the sort of silence that descends after Sharp Words have been spoken – which, indeed, they had. Witch Pongwiffy had let the fire go out, and Hugo (her Hamster Familiar) was not amused.

  It was very depressing in the hovel. Not only was the fire out, the roof was leaking. Big drips gathered on the blackened rafters and fell with dull thunks into the army of old saucepans and cracked basins littering the floor. Hugo was picking his way between them, armed with twigs and little pieces of screwed-up newspaper. He was wearing his HAMSTERS ARE ANGRY T-shirt, and right now you could believe it.

  ‘Anyway, it wasn’t my fault,’ muttered Pongwiffy after a bit. She was slumped in her favourite rocking chair, sulking. ‘It’s not my job to see to the fire.’

  ‘Oh no?’ snapped Hugo. ‘Whose job is it, zen?’

  ‘The Broom’s. Always has been.’

  ‘Ze Broom is off vork, remember?’ Hugo reminded her.

  It was true. The Broom was down with a severe cold and had taken to its sick bucket (which was the same as
its usual bucket with the addition of a spoonful of honey dissolved in warm water).

  ‘Well, in that case, it’s your job,’ said Pongwiffy firmly. ‘I’m the Witch around here, remember? I do all the important, Magical stuff. You’re just my helper. If the Broom’s off, the fire’s up to you.’

  ‘Oh ya? Along viz ze shoppink and ze cookink and ze cleanink, I s’pose? I only got two pairs of paws, you know. Who you sink I am? Superhamster?’

  Pongwiffy considered. It was true. Hugo was a treasure and it was all her fault that the fire had gone out. Now would be a perfect moment to admit it gracefully and apologise. On the other hand . . .

  ‘Ah, go drown in an egg cup, shorty!’ she snarled, and the perfect moment was gone.

  We have to forgive her. It was the rain, you see. It had been raining incessantly for weeks, driving Pongwiffy slowly but surely round the bend. She was a Witch of Action, who hated being cooped up. The sort of Witch who liked to be out and about, swapping gossip and recipes, popping in on people unexpectedly and inviting herself to tea. That sort of Witch.

  It had been ages since anyone had invited her to tea. It seemed that the entire Coven had taken to their beds and were refusing to answer their doors, despite her plaintive cries and loud bangings.

  Hugo sat back from arranging his twigs with an exasperated little sigh. One more day of Pongwiffy mooning about the place starting arguments was more than he could bear.

  ‘Vy you not make some Magic?’ he suggested. ‘Little bit of cackling, hmm? Mix up a brew? All zis rain, plenty of frogs about. Turn some into princes or sumsink.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’d like to? There’s nothing I’d like better. But we’ve run out of all the basic ingredients. There isn’t a speck of newt vomit left, and all the recipes call for that. I tried to get some from Malpractiss Magic, but as usual he didn’t have any. “Call yourself a Magic Shop,” I said.’

 

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