Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (3 page)

cringe and crave and implore. Not after what your Broom just did."

"Not if I buy you a brand new collection of make-up? As well as let you judge the

fancy dress parade?"

Sharkadder hesitated.

"Can I be
in
the fancy dress parade as well as judge it?"

"Certainly," said Pongwiffy immediately. "Nothing could be fairer."

"Done," said Sharkadder briskly. "See you in your garden at midnight."

CHAPTER THREE – A Brush With Danger

By now, of course, you'll be dying to know what had happened to Pongwiffy's Broom. Why

should a normally level-headed, sensible Broomstick suddenly fly off the handle like that?

Well, it had good reason. The day before, you see, it had had a terrible shock.

Something awful had happened to it.

It had been Broomnapped by Goblins!

It had happened so easily. The day before had been Wednesday, and Woody was

bored. (That's its name, by the way. Woody. Nobody but other Brooms ever bothers to call

it anything but Broom, but as it's starring in this part of the story, you really should know its

name.)

So. Woody was bored. Being a Witch of dirty habits, Pongwiffy never gave it anything

to do. She liked her hovel just as it was (filthy). Understandably Woody, who was an active

type, got tired of being propped up in the garden shed with nothing to do for hours on end

except listen to an indescribably tedious game of I Spy between a rusty rake and an old coal

shovel.

Lunch was over. Woody had swept the shed floor at least a dozen times, and the

long afternoon seemed to stretch into infinity.

"Bored," thought Woody. "That's what I am. Bored stiff. Fed up to the back bristles.

Unamused. I must find something to do, or I'll go stark staring bonkers."

It sneaked into the hovel and tried a bit of furtive sweeping when Pongwiffy's back

was turned, but she noticed.

"Oi! You! I've told you before about that! You leave that dirt right where it is!"

Feeling fed up and generally unappreciated, Woody flounced out and went looking

for Hugo, Pongwiffy's Hamster. Hugo couldn't speak Wood either, but was too kind to mind

when the lonely Broom moped around after him. However, this particular morning Hugo

was nowhere to be found as he was out checking for weak points in Pongwiffy's Wall Of

Smell.

Looking for a Hamster (even one wearing a gas mask) in a rubbish tip is like looking

for a tick in a Goblin's sum book. You're just wasting your time. Woody poked around a bit,

then gave up.

"Now what?" it thought. It looked up. The sky was a huge, empty sweep of tempting

blue, just crying out to be flown in.

"I know," thought Woody. "I'll go for a quiet little fly, all on my own. Brush up my

flying techniques. Bit of wind in the bristles, that's the ticket."

Now, this wasn't strictly allowed. The Witch rule book firmly states that Broomsticks

MUST NOT fly:

1) During daylight hours.

2) Without a Witch, unless given written permission.

But if you're bored, you get tempted into doing all kinds of silly things. Just this once.

Woody decided to risk it. After all, Witchway Wood was at its quietest this hour of the day.

Most of the Witches would be sleeping off lunch, and it was unlikely that it would be

noticed. Feeling rather wicked, it did a couple of pre-flight exercises, just to get the sap

moving – what Brooms call timbering up – then it took a deep breath, flexed at the base,

and gave a little jump. Up it soared, over the tree tops, into a nice, warm southerly wind.

"Mmmmm," thought Woody. "Now, this is more like it. Just what the tree surgeon

ordered."

Indeed it felt wonderfully free, up there among the clouds without Pongwiffy's bony

knees jabbing into its stick.

"Wow!" thought Woody. "It's good to be alive and a Broom today.” And it skittishly

performed an easy somersault or two, then attempted a complicated triple stick loop

followed by an inverted back flip. As usual it didn't quite manage it. To avoid loss of face, it

chased a passing crow for a minute or so, then flipped over on its back and floated lazily on

the air currents. It was enjoying itself so much, it didn't really pay any attention to where it

was flying.

Where was it flying?

Directly over Goblin Territory, that's where!

Goblin Territory. That's the name given to the scrubby, stony slopes of the Lower

Misty Mountains which border the south-western edges of Witchway Wood. It's an

unpopular, lonely, desolate place. There are a lot of sharp rocks up there, and it usually

drizzles. To be truthful, as a tourist area, it lacks something. Nevertheless, it is home to

seven particularly stupid Goblins, who live in a cave and answer to the names of Plugugly,

Stinkwart, Hog, Slopbucket, Lardo, Eyesore and Sproggit. That makes seven. One whole

Gaggle.

Now, Goblins and Witches are sworn enemies, and usually prefer to live at least a

thousand miles apart, so you may wonder why this particular Gaggle choose to live right

next door to Witchway Wood, which is notoriously stiff with the old girls.

Wonder no more. Plugugly, Stinkwart, Hog, Slopbucket, Lardo, Eyesore and Sproggit

didn't choose. They had been dumped there by Magic, and there, much to their disgust,

they had to stay.

It hadn't always been that way. In the old days they were regular gypsies, always

moving around, looking for fresh neighbours to drive mad. Until that fateful occasion when

they were stupid enough to attempt squatting in a Wizard's house. The furious house-holder

came back, took one look at the scandalous state of his kitchen, and cast a Spell of

Banishment which whisked them away to this particular cave on this particular mountain.

Right next door to Witchway Wood.

The Goblins, when they had got over their surprise, were terribly fed up. The cave

was damp and there was nothing to eat. The only place to go hunting was down in the

woods, where the Witches took great pleasure in spotting them, swatting them and booting

them back to their own territory again in two whisks of a wand. Not that the Goblins ever

succeeded in catching anything anyway. They were much too stupid. Hungry, harrassed,

hounded and frequently rained on, they had a very lean time of it.

Woody was aware of all this. Sadly, though, it was unaware that it was flying directly

above Goblin Territory. It only discovered this when it was rudely knocked out of the air by a

large brick.

CHAPTER FOUR – Broomnapped

The brick had been thrown by young Sproggit. Sproggit hadn't actually been aiming at

Woody, although he boasted later that he had. He hadn't even noticed that there was a

Broom up there. He'd just thrown a brick because he felt like it. (Throwing bricks is typically

Goblinish behaviour.) So Sproggit was extremely surprised when his brick connected with

Woody, bringing the poor thing crashing down out of the sky, point first onto his own foot.

Sproggit's pained scream brought the rest of the Gaggle pouring from their cave.

When they saw what had happened, they were delirious with joy. A captured Broomstick!

What luck! Even better, it was that ol’ Pongwiffy's Broomstick. What a prize! What a break!

Poor Woody. They threw it about a bit, jumped on it a couple of times, then tied it

up and triumphantly bore it back into the cave. Thankfully, Woody was stunned, and didn't

know about any of this. Crash landing on your sharp end from a great height is no joke.

When it came round some time later, it was horrified to find itself gagged, bound,

chained and firmly padlocked to a rusty hook projecting from the wall of a dank, smelly

cave. A short distance away, torches flickered on the boots, braces and bobble hats of its

seven unsavoury captors, who were huddled in a conspiratorial circle, obviously plotting.

"Oh no!" groaned Woody to itself. "Captured by Goblins! How embarrassing. Think

of the shame. If the gang get to hear about this, I'll be the laughing stick of the sky. And I'm

not even supposed to
be
here. Supposing Mistress finds out? I'll never live it down ..."

Anxiously, it looked around for a means of escape. There wasn't one. The ropes were

so tight, its sap was cut off. Even if it could somehow wriggle free, the front boulder was

firmly shut.

"How depressing," thought Woody. "Alone and friendless in a cave of mad Goblins.

What will become of me?'

Sick to the stick, it slumped back hopelessly and reluctantly tuned in to the Goblin's

conversation.

"Let's chop it up." That was young Sproggit. "I cort it, din I? An' I say we chops it up.

Wiv an axe. Chop it up an' send it back to ol' Pongwiffy in liddle pieces. Chop chop."

Whaaattttt?????!!
Woody's sap ran cold.

"Sproggit's right," agreed Slopbucket. "She's gorrit comin' to ’er she ’as, that ol'

Pongwiffy. Bein' so mean wiv 'er rubbish. Stickin' up that there Waller Smell, the ol' cheat."

That brought a heartfelt chorus of agreement. Feelings were running high about

Pongwiffy's Wall Of Smell. Raiding the Dump on the run up to Hallowe'en was traditional.

Everyone did it. Using Magic to guard it was downright mean.

"Booo!"

"Unfair!"

"’Ere ’ere!"