Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (9 page)

"Hold it right there!" Pongwiffy, of course. "Certainly we must have a proper party!

Where's our pride? Do we not have a reputation to uphold? Are we not the best party givers

this side of the Misty Mountains? Of course we are. Sandwiches! Cackling around bonfires!

Hah!"

"What's wrong with cackling around bonfires?" demanded Ratsnappy fiercely.

"We've always cackled around bonfires on Hallowe'en. It's tradition."

"Aye!" agreed Macabre. "We've heard your crackpot ideas befoor, Pongwiffy. Ah'm

all foor tradition."

"Nonsense," said Pongwiffy. "Don't be such old stick in the muds. Listen, I've got an

idea for this year's party which'll really put this coven on the map. It comes from this

wonderful book which I found and just happen to have right here."

With a bold gesture, she held the crumbling edition of
How To Make Your Party

Swing
above head.

"Listen!" she shrieked with the glassy-eyed conviction of the converted. "Listen!

What about
this
for an idea, then! FANCY DRESS!"

A long silence. Apart from Sharkadder, blank faces. Nobody had ever heard of such a

thing before. The trouble was, nobody wanted to be the first to admit it.

"Not that it matters, as we can't afford it anyway — but what's Fancy Dress?" asked

Sourmuddle, who was too old to care about seeming silly. Everyone breathed a sigh of

relief.

"Ah! Well, we dress up as someone or something else, you see," explained

Pongwiffy. "It can be anything. And there'll be a prize for the best costume."

"I knew that," Sharkadder told everyone knowledgeably. "It's a very modern idea,

actually."

"When you say it can be anything, what exactly do you mean?" enquired

Greymatter. "You mean, a queen or a penguin or a bar of soap?"

"Exactly right, Greymatter," beamed Pongwiffy. "You've got the idea. We could dress

up as stone age cavewomen if we liked. In sabre-toothed tiger skins."

"A bit chilly," pointed out Sourmuddle. "Crag Hill's not the warmest of spots in

October. I've got three vests on now, and an extra cardi. Besides, where am I supposed to

lay me hands on a sabre toothed tiger's skin? They're extinct, aren't they?"

Pongwiffy sighed. This was going to be an uphill struggle.

"No, no, Sourmuddle, I just said cavewomen as an example. You might want to be

something completely different. A Gypsy. Robin Hood. A Pencil. A Princess. Anything you

like. You choose. See?"

There was another long silence, while everybody thought about it. Fancy Dress, eh?

Wearing something other than rags for a change. Hmm. It took a bit of getting used to. On

the other hand, it might be a bit of fun. Especially if there was a prize.

"That's all very well, Pongwiffy," said Bendyshanks, "but we can't even afford to buy

a cake. Where do we get the money for costumes, may I ask?"

"I'll get it!" promised Pongwiffy rashly. "I'll get the money, don't you worry. I've got

the rubbish for the bonfire, I might as well do everything else. Don’t worry, girls, not only

will we have a party this year, but it'll be the best one yet! Just wait till you hear the rest of

my ideas. What I propose is this..."

But she got no further. Instead, there came an interruption. There was a whistling

noise from high above, and something long and thin came hurtling out of the sky, straight as

an arrow, whizz, bang, down into their midst.

CHAPTER NINE – Communication problems

Who was this unexpected visitor? Woody, of course. Bent on its errand of mercy.

"Oh no," muttered Pongwiffy to Hugo. "It's going to show me up again. I just know

it."

"It's that wretched Broom again!" cried Sharkadder. "I thought you said you locked it

in the shed, Pongwiffy. What's it doing here? Look, everyone, Pongwiffy's Broom! It's flown

here all on its own, and that's against the rules, isn't it, Sourmuddle? That deserves three

black marks at least."

"Objection!" protested Pongwiffy. "It's not
my
fault it's here is it? Home! Home this

minute. Broom."

This brought a storm of protest. Nobody wanted to lose the Broom just yet. All

Witches love talking about illnesses, especially operations. They consider themselves

experts at diagnosing faults in their equipment, whether it be wands, cauldrons or

Broomsticks. Everyone had a pet theory about Pongwiffy's ailing Broom. Suggestions ranged

from high sap pressure, to Acute Nerves Brought On By Living With Pongwiffy. They were all

terribly keen to observe the patient in the flesh — or wood, rather.

Besides, Pongwiffy's Broom was really most entertaining. Amongst other things, it

was licking Pongwiffy's boots, would you believe!

"Sharkadder's quite right, Pongwiffy," said Sourmuddle. "That Broom shouldn't be

out on its own. No Flying Without A Witch. It says so clearly in the rule book."

"But, Sourmuddle, I left it in the shed!" tested Pongwiffy. "It's not my fault if it

followed me. Oh, do stop it. Broom! Down! You're behaving like an idiot!"

She was right. Woody was. It had finished boot licking, and was now jumping about

like a badly trained puppy. It was making short, agitated little runs, pointing urgently up the

hill, beckoning, then coming back to tug at her cardigan sleeve. Pongwiffy was terribly

embarrassed, and smacked it hard on the stick.

"It wants to go walkies," remarked Bendysharks with a smirk. "Look! It thinks it's a

dog!"

"Give it a bone, Pongwiffy!" jeered Sludgegooey to general laughter.

"Woof woof," barked Agglebag and Bagaggle, rocking with the giggles.

"No control," sneered Ratsnappy. "Firm handling, that's what Brooms need."

"Excuse me, Grandvitch Sourmuddle," said Hugo. "I sink zis Broom is tryink to tell us

sumpsink. It got big, important news for us, zis Broom. I am sure of it."

"Well, we can find out soon enough," remarked Sourmuddle. "Use that language

spell, Pongwiffy, and ask it. You know. Zithery, zithery zoom..."

"Never," said Pongwiffy firmly. "Ever tried using that spell, Sourmuddle?"

"Well, yes, I see what you mean," admitted Sourmuddle. "Awful side-effects. Any

volunteers to speak Wood? In the cause of medical science?"

There were none, of course. Even in the cause of medical science, nobody could face

those awful side-effects. One or two lost interest altogether, and began to drift towards the

sandwiches.

Poor Woody. What an anti-climax. It had come all this way, perfectly prepared to do

the honourable thing and take the consequences. But it had forgotten one critical thing.

Nobody could speak Wood.

"Can it write?" enquired Scrofula, not very hopefully.

"Only in Wood," said Pongwiffy. So that was no good.

"I have a suggestion. It could tap out a message in morse code!"

That was Witch Greymatter. At the time, it seemed like a good idea.

"Broom!" ordered Pongwiffy sternly. "Kindly take yourself over to that tree and tap

out whatever you have to say in morse code."

At last! They were making some headway! Everyone crowded around and listened

hard while Woody carefully tapped out the message on a tree trunk. DANGER. BE

PREPARED. GOBLINS PLANNING TO RAID BROOM PARK TONIGHT. FORGOT TO MENTION

EARLIER. SORRY. MY FAULT. YOURS SINCERELY, WOODY.

Sadly, when it finally reached the end, it turned out that no one could understand

morse code anyway. It was all most terribly frustrating for everybody.

"I know! It can act it out!"

That suggestion came from Filth, Sludgegooey’s Fiend. "You know, like in charades.

One word at a time."

"What d'you think. Broom?" asked Pongwiffy. "Think you can do it?"

Woody thought it unlikely. It had never thought of itself as an actor. But desperate

measures were called for. It held up one twiggy finger.

"First word," chorused everyone, clustering around. This was more like it. This was

fun. This was entertainment. Next to eating, casting spells and talking about illnesses, if

there's one thing Witches enjoy, it's charades.

Woody hesitated for a moment. Then, it made a sudden sideways lunge at Witch

Scrofula, who happened to be wearing a bright red scarf. Scrofula gave a squawk of protest

as her favourite neck warmer was snatched away and waved furiously in the air.

"Scarf," said Greymatter. "It's trying to tell us it's got a sore throat. That's obvious."

Wild with frustration. Woody shook its head and flapped the scarf some more.

"It wants to do some knitting," suggested Sharkadder. "It's bored and feels like a bit

of a knit. Looks like one, too," she added unkindly.

"Leave it alone, Sharkadder," said Pongwiffy. "It's doing its best."

"It obvious vat it tryink to show," said Hugo, who was very good at charades. "It try

to show ze colour red. Red for danger. Right, Broom?"

Woody nodded emotionally. It could have wept with gratitude. Now they were

getting somewhere. Everyone cheered, and Hugo took a bow. Scrofula snatched back her

scarf, and sullenly wound it around her neck.

"Okay. Ze first vord is danger. Zis ve know. Vat next?"

Woody thought for a moment. This next one was going to stretch its talent to the

utmost limits. First, it cupped its ear.

"Sounds like," chorused one and all, caught up in the spirit of the thing. Encouraged,

Woody suddenly winced, as though its bristles hurt. It then began to walk very slowly,

swaying from side to side. We know what it was doing, don't we? Hobbling. Because

hobbling sounds vaguely like Goblin, and that was all it could think of.

"It's limping!" yelled Filth, Sludegooey's Fiend. "What sounds like limp?"

"Chimp! There's a wild chimp on the loose?” guessed Witch Ratsnappy, suddenly

inspired. But Woody was shaking its head. That wasn't it. They all thought again.

"Shuffling?"

"Blisters?"

"Athlete's foot? Bad leg?"