by Kaye Umansky
‘I dinnae like the sound o’ this motor coach business, though,’ complained Macabre. ‘What’s wrong wi’ going by Broomstick in a proper manner?’
‘It wouldn’t be like going on holiday then, would it?’ argued Pongwiffy. ‘Whoever heard of going on holiday by Broomstick? We’d be a laughing stock. Anyway, it’ll be a bit different, won’t it? Going by coach. We can sing songs and eat sandwiches.’
‘Where will we stay?’ Ratsnappy wanted to know.
‘I’ve booked us into a charming family-run guest house with lovely sea views. Mrs Molotoff, Ocean View.’
There was a murmur of excitement. Just imagine, staying in a proper guest house!
‘One last thing!’ called Pongwiffy over the general clamour. ‘I think I’d better mention it now. We’re not allowed to use Magic. Sludgehaven is strictly a No Magic resort.’
There was a gasp of dismay. What? No Magic?
‘What, not even little spells? In the privacy of our own bedroom?’ wailed Ratsnappy.
‘ ’Fraid not. The Council’s very fussy about it, apparently,’ explained Pongwiffy. ‘It’s a law. Look in the brochure, Sourmuddle. It says so on the last page.’
Sourmuddle turned to the last page, and read:
WARNING
Visitors are respectfully reminded that Sludgehaven-on-Sea is a holiday resort and THE USE OF MAGIC IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
Anyone not complying with this rule faces a heavy fine followed by instant banishment.
By order of the Council.
There was a short silence while everyone wrestled with the novel idea of doing without Magic for a whole week. Witches’ lives revolve almost entirely around making Magic. On the other hand, if it meant going without a holiday . . .
‘I suppose they’ve got to do that,’ said Scrofula doubtfully. ‘You’ve got to have rules. I mean, everyone can’t just go around using Magic willy-nilly. Not in a respectable holiday resort, I suppose.’
‘Absolutely!’ cried Pongwiffy cheerfully. ‘It won’t hurt us to hang up our Wands for a week, will it? It’ll be a bit like cowboys hanging up their holsters when they ride into town. What do you think, Sourmuddle? You’re Grandwitch. It’s your decision.’
‘I think . . .’ said Sourmuddle, and paused while everyone hung on her words. ‘I think if cowboys can do it, so can Witches,’ she finished, and a second cheer went up. Everyone leapt to their feet and clustered around, trying to look over her shoulder at the brochure and talk at the same time.
Everyone, that is, except Sharkadder, who was dabbing at her cold sore, looking hurt.
‘I do think you could have told me what you were planning, Pongwiffy,’ she said. ‘I thought we were best friends.’
‘You’ve been in bed all week, remember?’ Pongwiffy reminded her. ‘I came calling, but you wouldn’t answer the door. I was bringing you round a Get Well card too.’
‘Oh. Really? Well, that was very thoughtful of you. I’m sorry, Pong. I haven’t been myself these last few weeks.’
‘That’s all right, Sharky,’ said Pongwiffy nobly. ‘None of us has, which is why we all need a holiday. What d’you think of the idea anyway? Isn’t it wonderful?’
Sharkadder thought.
‘Did you say something about a Hall of Mirrors?’ she asked.
‘I did,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Would those be full-length mirrors, do you suppose?’
‘Sure to be. You can spend all day looking at yourself if you want.’
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea,’ said Sharkadder.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Goblins are Entertained
If the weather was bad in Witchway Wood, you should have seen it in Goblin Territory!
Goblin Territory. What a dump. Imagine a stony mountainside with lots of sharp rocks and clumps of stinging nettles and the odd stunted thorn bush. Include a snake or two, some biting insects, maybe a bad-tempered eagle. And a bog.
Next, imagine a damp, dark cave. At the cave’s entrance, stick an abandoned pram, a rusty old shopping trolley and a huge pile of burnt-out pots and pans. Fill the cave with seven unbelievably stupid Goblins called Plugugly, Stinkwart, Hog, Slopbucket, Lardo, Eyesore and Sproggit.
Now add rain. Lots and lots and lots of it.
Plugugly, Stinkwart, Hog, Slopbucket, Lardo, Eyesore and Sproggit, however, were used to rain. It almost always rained in Goblin Territory, so this was nothing new. Right now, actually, things were looking up a little, because for once, they had ENTERTAINMENT. Something to eat would have been better, but ENTERTAINMENT came a close second. (Or was it third? Difficult to say – the Goblins got mixed up after one.)
They had managed to capture a small Gnome called GNorman who, because of the awful weather, had rashly decided to take a short cut back from the paper shop. The short cut consisted of a little path which bordered the southern edge of Goblin Territory. GNorman was aware of this, but had assumed (wrongly) that the Goblins would be safely tucked away in their damp cave, eating nettle soup or whatever it was they did all day.
Instead, they jumped out at him from behind a rock, laughed at his pointy ears, threw his hat around, bent his fishing rod, put both him and his Daily Miracle in a big sack and bore him home in triumph. Once there, they set him on a rock and made him do a song-and-dance act. Some Gnomes wouldn’t have minded this, but GNorman was one of those rare things – a tone-deaf Gnome with absolutely no sense of rhythm. His efforts at the traditional Gnome Fishing Song caused no end of hilarity and reduced him to a sulky, scarlet-cheeked figure of fun.
‘More! More!’ begged the Goblins, clutching on to each other and wiping their eyes. ‘Do it again! Please!’
‘No,’ said GNorman through tight lips. ‘I won’t.’
‘Just de chorus,’ pleaded the big dopey one they called Plugugly. ‘Go on, go on. Just de bit about bein’ king o’ de pond. Where you wave your fishin’ rod and do dat funny jumpin’ fing an’ make us larf.’
GNorman kept his lips firmly buttoned.
‘Poke ’im wiv a stick,’ suggested young Sproggit. This provoked a chorus of agreement. Goblins know a good suggestion when they hear one.
‘Yeah, yeah! Go on, Plugugly, poke ’im wiv a stick!’
‘Can’t,’ said Plugugly. ‘Ain’t got one. Anyone got a stick?’
No one had a stick. Young Sproggit nearly volunteered to go out and get one, then remembered the rain and kept his mouth shut. The Goblins all looked disappointed. They shuffled their feet and stared at each other.
‘What shall we get ’im to do then?’ enquired Hog. ‘No point in gettin’ a Gnome in unless we gets ’im to do somethin’.’
‘We didn’t just get a Gnome in,’ pointed out Slopbucket. ‘We got a noozpaper too.’
The Goblins stared at the crumpled copy of The Daily Miracle, lying forgotten in a dark corner.
‘Not much we can do wi’ that,’ observed Lardo.
‘Anyone know ’ow to make a paper aeroplane?’ asked Eyesore, not very hopefully.
Nobody did.
‘We could tear it up,’ suggested young Sproggit, who had a very destructive streak. ‘Tear it up before ’is very eyes. Unless ’e sings us that funny song again.’
‘I’m not singing again,’ GNorman told him firmly. ‘Do what you will.’
‘Pity we can’t read,’ remarked Lardo, eyeing the newspaper with a slightly wistful air. ‘Then we’d know wot wuz goin’ on in the world. Fer once.’
Hog nodded. ‘There might be somethin’ about Goblins in there. And we wouldn’t know, ’cos we can’t read.’
‘De Gnome can, though, can’t ’e?’ Plugugly suddenly burst out. ‘We could get ’im to read de paper to us. See?’
This suggestion stunned the Goblins by its sheer simplicity. Of course! There was today’s paper, and there was a Gnome who could read! All you had to do was put the two together! What a brilliant idea!
‘Cor!’
‘Fabutastic!’
‘Nice one, Plug!’<
br />
Plugugly glowed with pride. There was no doubt about it. These days, he was coming up with some real brainwaves!
‘What about it, Gnome? Are you gonna read us the paper or what?’ demanded Hog, pushing his face unpleasantly close to GNorman.
‘Oh – all right,’ said GNorman with a little sigh. ‘If I must.’
GNorman couldn’t sing or dance, but he could read all right. He sat down cross-legged on the rock and held his hand out. ‘Give it here then. Everybody sit down quietly. You’re supposed to sit quietly when you’re being read to.’
Obediently, the Goblins sat. This was novel. This was different. They watched in wonderment as GNorman took out his reading glasses and placed them on his nose. They nudged each other excitedly as he straightened out The Daily Miracle and gave it a professional little shake.
‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. Witches To Go On Holiday! Witchway Wood will be a quiet place next week when the Witchway Coven departs for a holiday in sunny Sludgehaven-on-Sea. The holiday is the brainchild of Witch Pongwiffy. “The girls were feeling a bit down in the dumps,” she said. “I thought they needed cheering up.” ’
‘Wot?’ interrupted young Sproggit suddenly.
‘Beg yer parsnips?’ said Eyesore, cleaning out his ear with a dirty fingernail.
‘Eh?’ said Lardo.
‘Did ’e say wot I thort ’e juss said?’ enquired Hog.
‘Read dat again,’ Plugugly instructed. ‘And slower dis time. Last time, you went too fast. You got to wait for our brains to catch up, see.’
GNorman began again, a shade irritably.
‘ “Witches To Go On Holiday! Witchway Wood will be a quiet place . . .”’
This time, there was instant outrage.
‘ ’E did, ’e did! ’E did say wot I thort ’e did!’
‘Well I never! Them flippin’ Witches! They’re goin’ on ’oliday!’
‘I wanna go on ’oliday! ’Ow come them old Witches get to go on ’oliday an’ I don’t? I ain’t never been on ’oliday . . .’
‘ ’S not fair! ’S not fair!’
There was a great deal more of this sort of thing, accompanied by much angry teeth-gnashing, eye-rolling, heavy pacing about and the thumping of frustrated fists into palms. At one point, Slopbucket paced heavily on Stinkwart’s foot. Seconds later, Stinkwart’s frustrated fist somehow missed his palm and connected with Slopbucket’s rolling eye. This was the signal for everyone to wade in with fists flailing. For the next few minutes, pandemonium reigned.
GNorman tutted disapprovingly, turned to the back page of the Miracle, settled more comfortably on his rock and began to get involved with the crossword puzzle. One Across was tricky. The clue said, Words spoken by backward giant (3,2,2,3). Hmm.
Meanwhile, the fight raged about him. If Goblins could write (which they can’t) and were asked to compile a list of popular Goblin activities, it would go like this:
2. Eeet
3. Get entertayned
1. Fite
Being mind-bogglingly stupid, Goblins really enjoy a good punch-up, particularly when they’ve got something special to get upset about. Ten minutes later, dizzy and bruised, they all lay groaning on the floor, sucking their skinned knuckles and trying to get their breath back.
‘That were a good one, weren’t it?’ gasped young Sproggit, dabbing at his cut lip.
‘One o’ the best we’ve ever ’ad,’ agreed Hog, clutching his throbbing ear.
Everyone agreed that it had, indeed, been a fight to remember. Then Plugugly climbed painfully to his feet, lumbered over to where GNorman was still poring over the crossword, sat down expectantly in front of him and said, ‘Go on, den.’
‘Mmmmmmm?’ said GNorman, nibbling his pencil, lost in his little square world.
‘Go on wid de paper. But not dat bit about de Witches goin’ on ’oliday. We don’t like dat bit, do we, boys?’
‘No,’ agreed the others, clutching at various injured bits of themselves as they came limping back to sit once again in a semicircle at GNorman’s pointy-toed feet.
‘Well, what, then?’ asked GNorman, impatiently riffling through. ‘What d’you want to hear? The Skeleton Raffle was cancelled because of the rain. Luscious Lulu Lamarre is starring in a summer show somewhere on the coast. The Yeti Brothers are opening another spaghetti restaurant in Wizard Territory. There’s a letter here from some Werewolf complaining about being short-changed in Malpractiss Magic Ltd . . .’
‘No, no!’ howled the Goblins. ‘We don’t wanna hear ’bout that! We wanna hear ’bout Goblins!’
‘Goblins, eh? Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything in the paper about Goblins because, quite frankly, you’re not newsworthy,’ said GNorman, enjoying getting his own back.
The Goblins’ faces fell.
‘Nuffin’ at all?’ asked Eyesore sadly.
‘Nope. ’Fraid not,’ smirked GNorman, leafing through the pages without really looking.
‘Oh well. I suppose we might as well juss tear it up, then,’ said young Sproggit, reaching out with a malevolent glitter in his eye.
GNorman snatched his paper away in alarm and clutched it protectively to his breast. He didn’t want to lose the crossword puzzle. Words spoken by backward giant (3,2,2,3). Intriguing.
‘Oh, wait a minute,’ cried GNorman. ‘I’ve just noticed. Here’s something that might interest you, tucked away right at the bottom of page three. It’s an advertisement for somewhere called Gobboworld. Something called a Theme Park, whatever that might be. “A whole world of spectacularly idiotic fun,” it says here. “A Goblin’s paradise, opening shortly. Attractions will include lots of terrifying and stupidly dangerous rides, regular punch-ups, wet bobble hat competitions, overpriced junk food . . .” ’
He broke off, becoming suddenly aware of a strange silence. He looked up from the paper to find all the Goblins staring at him with their jaws dropping open. It was most unnerving.
‘What?’ said GNorman uncomfortably. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you looking like that?’
And in hushed tones, Hog said, ‘Gobboworld.’
‘Junk food,’ breathed Lardo.
‘Punch-ups,’ drooled Slopbucket.
‘Stupidly dangerous rides,’ hissed young Sproggit, eyes rolling.
And Eyesore and Stinkwart simply put their arms around each other and burst into silent, heaving sobs.
Plugugly’s little red piggy eyes shone. He let out a long, shaky breath and spoke for all of them.
‘I wanna go dere,’ he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Wizards get a Shock
‘Well, I’ll be frazzled with a lightning bolt! If that doesn’t beat all!’
It was Frank the Foreteller who spotted it first. He was sitting in the lounge of the Wizards’ Clubhouse at the time, idly thumbing through a copy of The Daily Miracle. One or two of his colleagues looked up from their armchairs with mild interest at his startled cry – but most carried on with what they were doing. Dozing, mainly, after a large cooked breakfast featuring far too many greasy sausages.
‘What?’ enquired Ronald the Magnificent, turning away from the rain-streaked window, where he had been following the dreary adventures of three little drips with his finger. ‘What beats all?’
He could have kicked himself as soon as he said it. If he had just kept his mouth shut and carried on playing with his drips, Frank the Foreteller might not have noticed him. As it was, he came down on Ronald like a wolf on the fold.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t young Ronald. What are you doing standing up, lad? Don’t tell me they still haven’t got you a chair?’
Ronald flushed and said nothing. That was the trouble with being the youngest Wizard. You got picked on a lot. And you never got a chair.
Or a locker to put your sandwiches in.
‘Dearie dearie me,’ said Frank the Foreteller sadly, shaking his head. ‘Still no chair. No beard yet either, I notice.’
This
caused a ripple of appreciative titters from the assembled company, the majority of whom were not so much bearded as buried in beard. There was not a Wizard present who didn’t have every part of his face above the shoulders colonised by some sort of jungly growth. Everyone except Ronald, who had three flimsy little hairs on his chin which simply refused to grow despite being talked to encouragingly every night before he went to bed.
‘What beats all, anyway?’ asked a short, tubby Wizard by the name of Dave the Druid.
‘Eh?’ said Frank the Foreteller.
‘What beats all? You said something beats all.’
‘Oh – right.’
Frank the Foreteller suddenly remembered what he’d been going to talk about, before he got sidetracked with Ronald. He pointed to the paper.
‘See the headlines? “Witches To Go On Holiday!” Seems the Witchway mob are off on a vacation to Sludgehaven-on-Sea. That’s your aunt’s Coven, isn’t it, young Ronald? Nice Auntie Sharkadder, who makes you your favourite fungus sponge. Hmm?’
Ronald blushed scarlet. It wasn’t done in Wizard circles to admit you had a Witch auntie.
‘I went to Sludgehaven once,’ said a disembodied voice from an empty chair, making everyone jump. Alf the Invisible had forgotten to take his reversing pills again. ‘Delightful little place. Quiet. Completely unspoilt. Delicious local delicacy, I remember. Jelly-like things with legs. Used to buy ’em off stalls. And then we’d take a nice little stroll along the prom. Ah me!’
‘Imagine it overrun with Witches,’ said somebody else with a shudder.
‘Yes, it makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ agreed Frank the Foreteller. ‘That lot running amok in a respectable seaside resort. Witches shouldn’t be allowed to go on holiday. They should stay in their revolting caves, where they belong.’
There were a few cries of ‘Hear hear!’ and ‘Back to the cauldron with ’em, I say!’
‘Actually, not all Witches live in caves,’ observed a thin, hawk-nosed Wizard, peering over his half-glasses and taking a sip from a small glass containing something green and smoking. His name was Gerald the Just and he had a reputation for being fair-minded. ‘And everybody needs an occasional break. Even Witches.’