Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (11 page)

Macabre pulled on the reigns sharply, and Rory skidded to a halt.

"Treachery!" howled Macabre. "Treachery and skulduggery! The Brooms ha’ bin

nicked, every last one. We bin robbed, girrrls. And d'ye ken who by? Ablins, that's who.

Look! Look what Ah foond!"

Macabre speared the evidence on the end of her bagpipes and waved it under

people's noses.

Alarm and consternation! Cries of anger, flapping of wings, flexing of claws, gnashing

of teeth, shaking of fists. Panic, accusations, and a lot of running around and shouting. Two

cases of hysterics, and three of fainting. Macabre wanted to form a posse. Greymatter

wanted to take a vote. Gaga fell out of her tree. Agglebag and Bagaggle came over all funny

and took turns fanning each other. It wasn't often that such dramatic events occurred

during coven meetings, and the Witches wanted to get their money's worth. In the midst of

it all, Pongwiffy was leaping up and down in a ripe royal fury, giving Woody a piece of her

mind.

"Idiot! Nincompoop! Stupid, dozy, wooden-brained plank-head! I see it ail now. You

got caught by Goblins, didn't you? That's where
you
were all that time when you went

missing. You overheard their plans, didn't you? You knew all along about this, didn't you?

You great sap. You useless cleaning utensil. Why didn't you tell me before? Twig brain!"

Woody hung its head and said nothing. From great actor to useless cleaning utensil

in ten easy insults. Oh, the shame of it all. It was now a broken Broom who deserved

everything that Pongwiffy threw at it.

"All right, all right, that's enough. No need to get carried away. Calm down,

everyone!" ordered Grandwitch Sourmuddle severely. "What's all the fuss? It's only Goblins.

And Goblins are bungling idiots, remember? They don't even have Magic. Watch me. I'll get

our Brooms back with a flick of me wand. Where's me wand. Snoop?"

"In your hand," pointed out Snoop.

"Just testing. Right, then. Watch the sky for returning Broomsticks.
Head of beer and

tail of deer, make our Broomsticks reappear!"

And Sourmuddle gave her wand a little flick. Now, at this point, something

impressive should have happened. A rumble of thunder, maybe, and a flash of lightning. At

the very least, green smoke. The night sky should then have swarmed with prodigal

Broomsticks. A glad reunion should have followed. The Goblins would have been captured

and dealt with most severely. Then, everyone could have eaten the sandwiches and gone

home.

Not so this time. Everyone was eagerly craning upwards, but nothing happened.

Well, that's not quite right. What happened was that Sourmuddle's wand gave a feeble little

phut, sprayed a few green sparks then went limp.

"That's worrying," said Grandwitch Sourmuddle, flopping it about like a length of

liquorice. Only had it serviced recently. Hmm. I wonder. Everyone had better inspect their

equipment."

Alarmed Witches scrabbled in their pockets and bandbags. It's surprising how much

a Witch can get in her handbag. Wands, bells, books, candles, crystal balls even fold-up

cauldrons were produced, along with a load of dirty tissues, small frogs, toothless combs,

photographs of loved ones and fluffy old half-sucked boiled sweets. There was a lot of

flicking and muttering and peering and little exclamations of dismay.

"Sourmuddle! My wand's gone wonky too!” shouted Pongwiffy importantly. "Look,

it's all floppy, see? Just like yours." Nobody took any notice. Pongwiffy's equipment seldom

did work, mainly because she never cleaned it.

"I don't know about you lot, but my crystal ball's up the creek," said Sourmuddle.

"Might as well try to see into a cow pat."

Crystal ball owners excitedly agreed that theirs were displaying the same mysterious

symptoms.

"And guess what! The pages of my Pocket Spell Book are all stuck up, with

mysterious invisible glue," cried Sludgegooey. "It's usually egg," she explained to anyone

who was interested.

"Oh no! My best wishbone's snapped!"

"Look, everybody, I can't make little green explosions anymore! See? I snapped my

fingers and nothing happened."

"I don't know about you lot, but my brain’s gone blank. I can't even remember the

ingredients for a basic brew!"

It was true. Bells wouldn't ring, books wouldn't open and candles wouldn't light.

Brains had gone blank of the simplest spells. There wasn't a stiff Wand to be seen. Wand

droop was the order of the day.

"Sabotage!" hissed Sourmuddle thrillingly. "Sabotage, shinnanigans and hanky

panky. You know what, Witches? There's another Power at work, blocking ours. I've come

across this sort of thing before. Some cheeky upstart has got hold of our top secret Magic

code numbers. The ones we're never supposed to divulge on pain of being lowered into a

well and pelted with bad eggs. All right, you lot, who's been giving out inside information?

Come on, come on, it's obvious that one of you has been shooting her mouth off."

That was when Pongwiffy had a rather nasty coughing fit. It was so bad, she had to

go behind a tree for a moment.

"Oh well, there's only one thing to do," continued Sourmuddle. "I hereby declare an

Official State Of Emergency."

There was a loud cheer. Official State Of Emergency, eh? They didn't have one of

those very often. It sounded terribly exciting.

"Basically, girls, we're in a bit of a fix. No Magic. No transport. It's obvious

somebody's up to no good behind our backs! But who?"

"Booo! Just wait till we get our hands on ’em!"

"Grrrr!"

There was a lot of enthusiastic shouting. Pongwiffy got over her coughing fit,

stepped casually out from her tree, and shouted louder than anyone.

"Why did you go behind that tree just then, Pongwiffy?" asked Sharkadder, sidling

up.

"Mind your own business," said Pongwiffy. "Grrr! Boo! Down with cheeky upstarts!"

"Who? Who?" pondered Sourmuddle. "Who’s got the nerve to mess with Witches on

the run up to Hallowe'en?"

Everyone thought hard. It wasn't likely to be the Wizards, who were far too snooty.

Likewise the Skeletons. The Ghouls didn't have the nerve. The Goblins didn't have the

brains. Although there was the bobble hat, of course…..

"I'm fed up wi’ all this talk," announced Macabre, who was a Witch of action. "I'm

goin’ back tay the Broom Park tay look for more clues." And she mounted and rode off.

"Oh well, there's nothing else for it," decided Sourmuddle. "Where are you,

Pongwiffy?"

"Me? Why? What d'you want me for?" demanded Pongwiffy, terribly flustered to be

picked on.

"You'll just have to fly off and find out what's going on," explained Sourmuddle.

"You're the only one with transport, remember? So it's up to you to sort it out. Besides, if

you had proper control over your Broom none of this would have happened. So I hold you

personally responsible for getting our Brooms back. Off you go. And don't take all night

about it."

"What — all on my own?" complained Pongwiffy, glancing hopefully at Sharkadder.

Sharkadder tossed her hair, linked her arm in Sludgegooey's and purposely turned her back.

"Don't be such a baby, Pongwiffy," said Sourmuddle, impatient to get at the

sandwiches. "Off you go. One Witch is more than a match for Goblins. Even you."

"But my wand's not working and my Broom might not be well enough to fly and I

don't even know where to start looking and we haven't finished discussing the party ..."

"Stop making excuses," said Sourmuddle "We're in a State Of Emergency. It's hardly

the time to think about parties, is it? Hardly the time to think about enjoying ourselves. Hey,

Agglebag! Grab one of those spiderspread sandwiches for me, will you? Now, buzz off,

Pongwiffy, and don't come back without those Broomsticks. Right girls. After three. When

you're smi-ling, when you're smi-ling..."

And in seconds, the trestle tables were under attack and Pongwiffy, Hugo and the

disgraced Woody were left quite alone. Nobody offered to accompany them on their

mission. Sharkadder was tucking in without even glancing in Pongwiffy's direction.

Oh well. There was nothing else for it. Grimly, Pongwiffy grabbed Woody. It shied

nervously, then held steady as Pongwiffy clambered aboard.

"Vere ve go first, Mistress?" asked Hugo, scuttling up to the rim of her hat.

"Up," said Pongwiffy irritably. "Where else?"

Desperate to please. Woody went up.

CHAPTER TWELVE – Cleaning Up

How Ali Pali ever managed to do it in the time will always remain a mystery. You had to

hand it to him. When it came to transformations, that Genie was a genius.

The Dump had been taken over and changed beyond all recognition. It had been

spruced up and tartified. It now looked like a sort of cross between a rubbish tip and an

oriental fair ground. It had an exotic, Aladdinish sort of allure. It was brilliantly illuminated.

Coloured magic lanterns. Fairy lights. Bunting. Flags. That sort of thing.

Ali Pali obviously believed in heavy advertising. There were posters tacked up on

trees all over Witchway Wood, advertising the event in huge, screaming letters:

TONIGHT! GRAND RAID ON RUBBISH DUMP! EVERYTHING MUST GO! FIVE QUID ONLY FOR

TEN MINUTES UNINTERRUPTED LOOTING. BRING YOUR FRIENDS. HAVE FUN! WALL OF

SMELL DISMANTLED COURTESY OF GENIE ENTERPRISES.

Yes, indeed, the Wall Of Smell had gone. The tip now smelt strongly of the antidote

(the main ingredient of which was a cheap eastern hair oil called Desert Pong).

At the entrance, a striped awning had been erected. Inside, Ali Pali sat cross-legged

on a pile of cushions. He was smoking a large cigar and stuffing fivers into a till. He was

further equipped with a megaphone and a very fancy pocket watch which he consulted

regularly. His carpet bag lay at his feet. A large ruby was flashing on one of the medallions

around his neck (otherwise you would never have known that he was simultaneously

working very complicated Magic. Erecting a barrier on all incoming spells from Crag Hill to

be precise. It's all rather technical and hard to understand unless you're a paid up member

of the Magic Circle).

A long queue stretched far back into the woods. It consisted of the usual crowd. A

languid group of Skeletons; a gang of Ghouls, behaving like louts as always; the local chapter

of the Hell's Gnomes; a
bevy of Banshees and a troupe of Trolls; several hairy types you

couldn't really put a name to. Everyone clutched handbills saying
All You Can Carry For A

Fiver
and wore expressions of barely containable glee. They had been itching to get their

hands on Pongwiffy's rubbish for weeks.

Two buskers entertained the waiting hordes. A tap-dancing Gnome with a banjo

attempted to drown out a Leprechaun who sang a sad song about his grey haired ol’