Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (8 page)

complete twit.

Still singing, it launched into the air, smashed through the shed window and streaked

away, bent on rescue.

"Show off," said the Coal Shovel.

"Fly boy," agreed the Rake. And with a sniff, they both settled down to yet another

everlasting game of I Spy.

"A thousand curses!"

A short way away, in Pongwiffy's hovel, Ali Pali heard the crash, snuffed out his

candle and froze. It was hard to tell that it was Ali Pali, because he was wearing a gas mask.

Besides, the place was in pitch darkness. However, it was indeed him. His carpet bag lay

open on Pongwiffy's table. It contained various curious items. Bottles of cheap perfume.

Discontinued lines of strong aftershave. Tins of freshener. A megaphone. A cash register.

Coloured flags. Crayons. A folding tent. It was amazing how it all fitted in.

After the crash came the sound of tinkling glass, followed by a sort of whoosh. After

that, silence. Ali Pali waited a moment, then gave a shrug, re-lit his candle and continued to

be up to no good.

CHAPTER EIGHT – The Meeting

On Crag Hill, a cheery fire was blazing. Witches and Familiars milled about, chattering and

gossiping and greedily eying the sandwiches which were piled high on trestle tables. The

sandwiches were always the highlight of these affairs. The trouble was, no one was allowed

to eat them until coven business had been attended to. Which explains why the formal part

of coven meetings always tends to be short.

The formal part hadn't yet started. Everyone was just hanging around, filling in time.

Agglebag and Bagaggle practised a new duet on their violins. Ratsnappy and Scrofula picked

holes in each other's knitting. Every so often, there would be a little flash of light as one of

the Witches demonstrated a new spell, followed by shouts of admiration or loud ridicule,

depending on how impressive it was. Further up the hill in the Broom Park, the Broomsticks,

parked and promptly forgotten, talked amongst themselves.

Pongwiffy was very much in evidence, acting all mysterious about the wonderful

ideas she had for the forthcoming party and talking loudly about her Broom troubles. Much

to Sharkadder's disgust, she had gathered quite a crowd. All Witches consider themselves

experts in such matters, and everyone had an opinion. Sharkadder was particularly annoyed

when Pongwiffy acted out the bit where the Broom trod on Dudley's tail and got a huge

laugh. Dudley was so upset, he had to go behind a bush and bite on a rock.

"Not funny, Pongwiffy!" howled Sharkadder.

"Oh, poo. Where's your sense of humour, Sharky? Now, as I was saying..."

But then:

"Quiet please!" called a shrill, quavering old voice. "If we're all ready, I'd like to call

this meeting to order. Witches, kindly be upstanding. Pass me my umbrella, Snoop. If they

don't stop yapping, Macabre, give ’em a blast on your bagpipes."

The voice belonged to Grandwitch Sourmuddle, the mistress of the Witchway coven.

Two hundred years old, with a shocking memory. Firelight glinted on her spectacles, and on

the pitchfork of the exasperated Demon who perched on her shoulder, forked tail draped

around her neck like a long scarf. His name was Snoop, and he was Sourmuddle’s Familiar.

Witch Macabre raised her pipes to her lips with a threatening gesture. Rory, her

Haggis, gave a warning moo. Immediately, the gossip and chatter died down. Knitting was

put away, noses blown and coughs stifled. Witches and Familiars stood to attention. Those

who had remembered umbrellas opened them. The rest stood with hunched shoulders,

looking resigned.

"Hail, Witches!" piped the Grandwitch.

"Hail!" came the response. As always, a small cloud came buzzing through the sky

and delivered a short, sharp burst of hailstones before busily whizzing off again.

"I declare the boring, formal bit of this meeting open," announced Sourmuddle,

folding her umbrella. "Right. Park yer bums."

There was an immediate scramble for a warm spot in front of the fire. After a great

deal of jostling and pushing, they were all finally sitting comfortably. (Or in Gaga's case,

hanging comfortably from a nearby tree.) Pongwiffy made sure she was in the middle of the

front row. Hugo climbed to the rim of her hat, where he could see better. On one side of

them sat Sharkadder and Dudley. On the other slumped Witch Bonidle and her Sloth, who

was acting as a pillow. As usual, they were both fast asleep. A half eaten apple dangled from

Bonidle's limp hand.

Pongwiffy pinched it and finished it off for her. That's Witch behaviour for you.

Scrofula stuck her hand in the air.

"Excuse me, Sourmuddle. Can Barry and I be excused? Neither of us are feeling too

well. If you don't mind, we'd like to take our share of the sandwiches and go home. I've got

a sore throat, and Barry's moulting again, aren't you Barry?"

She nudged the sad, bald vulture, and he gave obliging cough.

"Not likely," said Sourmuddle. "You're going to stay here and suffer with the rest of

us. Yes, Sharkadder? What's the matter with you?"

"Grandwitch Sourmuddle, I've got a complaint about Pongwiffy. Do you know what

she did? Or rather, what she let her Broom do. She..."

"Later, Sharkadder, later. You know that complaints about Pongwiffy come under

Any Other Business. First things first. We are here tonight to discuss ... er ... we are here to

... what are we here to discuss. Snoop?"

There was a general sigh.

"The Hallowe'en Party," Snoop reminded her wearily. "I've told you a thousand

times."

"Yes, yes, I knew all the time, I was just testing you. Find the coven account book,

will you? And somebody wake up Bonidle. I can't hear myself think with her snoring like

that."

Snoop raised his eyes to heaven, slid down and rummaged about in a black plastic

bin liner. It was full of all kinds of junk. Spell books, wands, magical potions, crystal balls and

the odd toad or two were all jumbled up with a flask of hot soup, gum boots, cough

medicine, corn plasters and an extra scarf for the flight home. Sourmuddle liked to be

prepared. Finally, a dog-eared old exercise book came to light.

Meanwhile, Pongwiffy helpfully tried to wake Bonidle, who, you will remember, was

fast asleep, head on Sloth. (The Sloth, incidentally doesn't have a name. Bonidle is too lazy

to think of one, and the Sloth is too tired to care.)

Pongwiffy's method of awakening the sleeping beauty was to administer a sharp dig

in the ribs with the handle of her umbrella. Accidentally on purpose, she managed to poke

Sharkadder up the nose with the sharp end. For Sharkadder, this was the final straw. The

uneasy truce between them was broken.

"Idiot!" hissed Sharkadder. "That's it! As of now, I am no longer your friend! You can

walk home."

"If I walk home, you don't get to judge the fancy dress," threatened Pongwiffy. "And

you can't be in it either," she added.

"Be quiet, Pongwiffy and Sharkadder," scolded Grandwitch Sourmuddle. "This is an

important meeting. It's essential that we pay attention. We have to discuss the

arrangements for the party."

"Is that all?" complained Witch Macabre. "What a boot a fight? Can we noo have a

friendly wee fisticuffs, then?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Macabre, but there’s no fighting tonight."

Macabre went into a deep sulk, and Rory pawed the ground with a frustrated hoof.

(Rory is interesting. Macabre insists that he is the only live Haggis in existence. Looking at

him, that is probably just as well. Rory has a great deal of shaggy fur and a daft-looking

fringe which hangs over his eyes. He is so interesting, he deserves a whole book to himself

— but there isn't enough room in this one.)

"Pongwiffy?" called Sourmuddle. "I've got a horrible feeling it's your turn to organise

the Hallowe'en party this year."

"It certainly is, Sourmuddle!" yelled Pongwiffy, leaping to her feet, sticking her arm

in the air, quivering with keenness. "This year's party will be the best yet!"

"Wrong," said Sourmuddle, opening the account book. "Terrible news, I'm afraid. We

can't afford a party this year. We're out of funds. We spent the last of our money on that

coach trip to Sludgehaven-on-Sea."

This announcement was greeted with loud moans. Pongwiffy couldn't believe her

ears.

"No party?"
she shrieked. "But it's my
turn,
Sourmuddle. Of course we must have a

party. I've got loads of wonderful ideas!"

"Well, all right, perhaps no party at all is going a bit far," relented Sourmuddle. "But

we'll have to cut out a few things. Like the balloons, the funny hats, the barbecue, the band,

the prizes, the cake, the party bags, the..."

"Stop, stop! You're cutting everything out. There's nothing left!" wailed Pongwiffy.

"Yes there is. We can bring sandwiches, like we did tonight. And we can still sit and

cackle around the bonfire. I'm sorry, Pongwiffy. I know you think you're the world's best

organiser, though I can't think why. But if we haven't got any money, there's not a lot we

can do, is there? Right. Meeting over. Let's eat."

The consensus seemed to be that this was a jolly good idea: There was a general

stirring and rising and scrabbling about for wands and handbags. Until....