Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (7 page)

"’Tis the ’amster!" hissed Dudley spitefully into Sharkadder's ear. "The Broom can't

take its weight. Shall I push it off, Mistress? Just say the word, an’ I’ll send it to its doom."

"Permission to bite ze fat cat on ze bum, Mistress," squeaked Hugo, who had heard.

"Permission denied. Stop making trouble, Hugo,” yelled Pongwiffy above the wind.

"We're guests on this Broom, remember? Look! The others! Let's catch them up!"

Sure enough, up ahead, Witches Bendyshanks, Sludgegooey, Scrofula and Ratsnappy

were flying in convoy, busily swopping recipes.

"Of course, I expect I'll be asked to make my speciality for the Hallowe'en party,"

Sludgegooey was saying. "Marshmallows. You know the secret of making marshmallows?

Marsh. Plenty of it. Of course, it has to be that real, rich, black, stinky stuff. Quagmire's no

good, is it. Filth? Too scummy. Wrong consistency."

The small Fiend perched on Sludgegooey's shoulder agreed that quagmire was a

poor substitute for marsh.

"At a pinch, you can use swamp, but they don't come out so light — oh, hello

Sharkadder. What's Pongwiffy doing on your Broomstick?"

"I'm getting a lift," explained Pongwiffy. "My Broom's sick. Stick warp, we think."

"Mine had that once," remarked Scrofula. "It kept shedding sawdust everywhere.

What with that and my dandruff and Barry moulting, you couldn't see the floor for weeks.

We were snowed in. Had to dig ourselves out with shovels in the end. Messy old business.

Remember, Barry?”

The bald Vulture hunched behind her nodded sadly.

"Oh, really?" said Pongwiffy. "Shedding sawdust, you say? It's not doing that, is it,

Sharky?"

"No,” admitted Sharkadder. "I can't say I noticed any sawdust. Plenty of face

powder, but no sawdust."

"No sawdust, no stick warp," said Scrofula wisely. "It must be something else. What

are the symptoms?"

"Oh — nervousness. Cold sweats. Panic attacks," explained Pongwiffy.

"Attacks people's make-up," chipped in Sharkadder with a bitter sniff.

"Faints a lot," continued Pongwiffy. "That sort of thing."

"Sounds like it's had a shock," remarked Bendyshanks. "Have you tried talking to it?"

"What, in Wood you mean? And use that language spell? No fear," said Pongwiffy.

"I've tried kicking it, though."

Everyone agreed that if kicking it didn't work, there was little point in talking to it.

"Have you tried being nice to it?" asked Sludgegooey. "Stroke it. Extra rations.

Treats. Kindness and sympathy can work wonders. I heard that somewhere."

"Poppycock!" snapped Ratsnappy. "Discipline, that's what's needed. A good, firm

hand. You never see my Broom going sick. It wouldn't dare. Sympathy is not a word in my

vocabulary."

"What word isn't in your vocabulary?” enquired a voice, and Witch Greymatter flew

up alongside. She had a newspaper balanced across her stick. She was doing a crossword

puzzle, and her Owl, whose name was Specs, sat on her shoulder and studied 4 Across.

"What word isn't in your vocabulary, Ratsnappy?" repeated Greymatter.

"Unquestionably it will be in mine. I flatter myself that there are very few words with which I

am unfamiliar. Specs and I scour the dictionary every morning, and learn a new one. This

morning we learnt VISCID. That means sludgy. Glutinous. Slimy, sticky and gluey."

"Like your skunk stew, Pong," said Sharkadder unkindly, and everybody except

Pongwiffy nearly fell off their Broomsticks laughing.

"Very funny," said Pongwiffy, and made a mental note that the minute her

transportation troubles were sorted out, she would break friends with Sharkadder. Forever

this time.

"Here's another one," continued Greymatter, warming to her subject. "SAGACIOUS.

It means wise. Knowledgeable. Intelligent."

"Like you, I suppose," growled Ratsnappy.

"Certainly. I don't want to boast, but it's obvious to everyone that I am the brains in

this coven."

"Why?" asked everyone.

"Because I write poetry," explained Greymatter loftily. There was no arguing with

that. She did. And very highbrow it was too.

"In fact," went on Greymatter. "In fact, Pongwiffy, I was going to suggest that we

have a poetry reading at the Hallowe'en party this year. I've written a few special verses for

the occasion."

"Er — I'm not too sure about that, Greymatter,” hedged Pongwiffy. "I've got a few

ideas of my own about the party this year."

"Like what?" asked Ratsnappy suspiciously.

"Ah ha," said Pongwiffy mysteriously. "Wait and see."

Just then, there came the sound of a horn, followed by a mad, blood-chilling screech.

"Gaga," chorused everyone, and hastily got out of the way.

There was a fierce flapping noise, and Witch Gaga hurtled past like some demented

surfer on the crest of a wave. A cloud of squeaking bats flapped adoringly around her head.

She was wearing wild rags of red, white and blue, and balloons were attached to her hat.

She carried a football rattle in one hand and a tin trumpet in the other. She was, of course,

thoroughly bonkers — but in a jolly sort of way. The Witches watched with interest. Gaga

was celebrated for her reckless stunt work.

With a wild cry of "Watch me, girls!" she turned two mid-air somersaults, which

brought her Broom perilously close to the tip of a pine tree. Unwisely, she attempted a

third, and both she and the Broom disappeared beneath the foliage, obviously destined for

a spectacular crash landing.

"Seen it," chorused the watching Witches, and flew on.

In time, more tiny figures on Broomsticks flew up to join the main convoy. The tubby

twin Witches Agglebag and Bagaggle, violins tucked beneath their chins. Witch Macabre,

whose extra-long tartan painted Broomstick had to be reinforced so that it could carry the

combined weight of herself, her bagpipes and her Haggis, whose name was Rory.

Grandwitch Sourmuddle and Bonidle were the last to arrive, because Sourmuddle had

forgotten the time and Bonidle had overslept.

That was it. All thirteen of them. The full ragged, chattering, squabbling complement,

gliding along towards distant Crag Hill in perfect formation.

CHAPTER SEVEN – Guilt?

Back in the garden shed. Woody finally came to. It sat up with a great deal of groggy

groaning and head clutching. It felt awful. It felt disorientated. Confused. It didn't know

what day it was. All it knew was that it was in the shed, the shed was dark, and that it was

being ogled by the Rake and the Coal Shovel who had obviously just been talking about it

behind its back.

Of course,
we
know what Woody has been through in the past twenty-four hours,

and can feel some sympathy. All that talk of Goblins and axes on top of the guilty secret it

was carrying. It's not surprising it cracked under the strain.

The Rake and the Shovel didn't know any of this, of course. They stared

unsympathetically as Wood lurched over to its bucket and took a long, cold drink. They

nudged each other as it splashed water down its stick, took deep, steadying breaths and

tried to think straight. What time was it? Come to think of it, what year was it?

"Now you're in it," said the Coal Shovel, who could never resist getting a dig in. "Now

you're in trouble. Pongwiffy's furious with you."

"Sssh," muttered the Rake. "We sent it to Coventry, remember?"

"I was just saying," explained the Shovel. "I was just remarking that now it's in

trouble. Missing the flight and that."

Suddenly, Woody remembered everything. The Broomnapping. The Goblins. The

Plan. The meeting! Oh no! Of course, it was tonight. Even now its fellow Brooms were on

their way to the dreaded Broom Park. Supposing — just supposing — the Goblins actually

managed to pull it off? Oh guilt, doom and alarm!

Woody gnawed its twiggy fingers, trying not to think about what might happen to its

friends. Friends that it had known since it was a sapling. Friends that it had swept with, wept

with, grown with and flown with. Ashley. Little Elmer. Scotty McPine. Roots, Stumpy and all

the rest. Good friends. Tried, tested and true friends. Friends who always remembered its

birthday.

In an agony of remorse, Woody remembered the most important bit of the Broom

Code, which said "A Broom sticks up for its friends." It remembered the Broom anthem,

which went:

"0 riders of the sky are we!

We'll sweep away the enemy,

"Til all the world exclaims. Oh, See –

There go the noble Broomsticks."

It was a moving song. It set the sap stirring, and brought tears to the eyes. Woody

hummed a bit now. Strong emotion made its voice crack.

"What are you singing for?" enquired the Coal Shovel grumpily. "You've got nothing

to sing about. You're in big trouble, you. Shouldn't be surprised if it wasn't the clothes pegs

this time. That'll teach you to mend yer flighty ways."

(The Coal Shovel and Rake were always unfriendly towards Woody. They were

jealous because Woody got out more than they did.)

Woody ignored them and carried on singing, louder now. It had got to the chorus,

which was the best bit, the bit about Witch Broomsticks being the greatest thing since sliced

bread:

“All for one and one for all,

Standing proud and straight and tall.

Sweeping, swooping, loop the looping,

Gallant, noble Broo-oom-sticks!”

"It's singing the anthem," observed the Rake. "What's it doing that for?"

Woody was now singing at the top of its voice. Its eyes were glazed, its arm raised in

a salute. It was changing. It was growing, straightening, standing tall and proud. It beat its

stick in time to the music.

"Feeling better, are we?" sneered the Coal Shovel.

Yes. Woody
was
feeling better. Much, much better. And do you know why? Because

it had made a major decision, that's why. It was the anthem that did it. It's impossible not to

come over all noble when singing such stirring words. By the time it was half way through

the chorus, it knew what it had to do. It would come clean. It would fly after the others, con-

fess everything, sound the alarm, and take the consequences. Even if it meant looking a