01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (2 page)

The Goblins are always surprised to find the woods deserted—but they’d never
think of changing their hunting night to, say, Thursdays, thus catching everyone
unawares. That’s how stupid they are. Of course, you could forgive them their
stupidity if they weren’t so generally all round horrible.

After the futile hunt, Goblins always have a party. The party is always a
flop, because there’s never anything to eat, and invariably ends with a big
fight. Goblins like fighting. It goes with their stupidity, and the Tuesday
night punch-up has now developed into a Goblin Tradition. It’s a silly one—but
then, all their Traditions are silly. Here are a few more, just to give you the
idea:

Painting Their Traps Bright Red; Bellowing Loud Hunting Songs Whilst Walking
On Tiptoe; Stomping Around In Broad Daylight With Faces Smeared With Soot so
they won’t be noticed; Wearing Bobbly Hats, even in a heat wave, To Stop The
Brains Freezing Up; Cutting The Traditional Hole In The Bottom Of The Hunting
Bag, so that whatever goes in immediately falls out again. Right, that’s enough
about Goblins in general. Let’s now get back to the Gaggle in the cave next door
to Pongwiffy.

All Goblins are great music lovers, and Pongwiffy’s new neighbours were no
exception. They kept her up to all hours, playing ghastly Goblin music at very
high volume. Now, Goblin music sounds rather like a combination of nails
scraping on blackboards, burglar alarms, and dustbin lids blowing down the road,
so you see what she had to put up with.

It was most unfortunate, then, that the Gaggle next door chose the very night
that Pongwiffy was entertaining Sharkadder to supper to hold their Official Cave
Warming Party. Just take a look at the following:

7 Goblins make a Gaggle

3 Gaggles make a Brood

2 Broods make a Tribe

1 Tribe makes life unbearable.

The Gaggle next door had invited no less than
two entire Tribes
to
their cave warming—and that, if you can’t work it out for yourself, is
eighty-four Goblins! They all arrived at the same time, singing. Can you
imagine?

A hundred squabblin’ Goblins,

Hobblin’ in a line,

One got stuck in a bog, me boys,

Then there were ninety-nine…

they howled joyfully, pouring into the cave. Next door, Sharkadder leapt from
her cardboard box, sending the plate of Skunk Stew crashing to the floor.

“My new neighbours,” explained Pongwiffy, scooping the spilt stew
on to her own plate. “I’ll eat this if you don’t want it.”

Ninety-nine squabblin’ Goblins,

Hobblin’ out to skate,

One went under the ice, me boys,

Then there were ninety eight…

warbled the Goblins relentlessly, stomping around in their hobnail boots and
beating their warty heads against the wall. A small avalanche of stones rained
down on Sharkadder’s new hair-do. A large spreading crack indicated that the
ceiling was about to fall in.

“Stop them! Stop them making that dreadful noise!” howled Sharkadder, trying
in vain to protect her curls.

Ninety-eight squabblin’ Goblins,

Hobblin’ down to Devon,

One got chased by a bull, me boys,

Then there were ninety-seven…

droned on the song, and Pongwiffy’s favourite poison plant keeled over and
died on the spot. Then the ceiling
did
fall in. There was a groaning,
grinding noise, and down it came with a huge crash, burying both Pongwiffy and
Sharkadder under several tons of rubble. Luckily, they’re Witches—and Witches
are tough.

“Sharky? Where are you? Are you all right?” called Pongwiffy, crawling out
from under a large slab of granite and peering through the murk at the fallen
boulders littering the floor. There was a moment’s silence. Then, the
overturned cauldron gave a heave, and Sharkadder emerged, shaking with fury and
covered from head to foot in Skunk Stew.

“Oh dear,” said Pongwiffy. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m never speaking to you again, Pongwiffy!” hissed Sharkadder, and ran
weeping from the cave.

Ninety-four squabblin’ Goblins,

Hobblin’ out to tea…

Pongwiffy picked her way through the rubble and staggered out, gasping for
air. She was just in time to see Sharkadder mount her Broomstick, which was
saddled outside, and zoom off, splattering the tree tops with Skunk Stew and
screaming shocking curses. Pongwiffy’s own Broom was propped where she had left
it, fast asleep as usual.

One got choked by a crumb, me boys,

Then there were ninety-three…

Pongwiffy marched up to the Goblins’ front door, which was, to be exact,
their front boulder and rapped sharply.

There was a sudden pause, followed by muffled mutters of: “Fink dat’s Uncle
Slobbergum?” “No, he’s already here.” “Where?” “In de soup. He just fell in it.”
“See who it is, Stinkwart.” “Where’s Plugugly? Answering the boulder’s his job…” and so on.

Finally the boulder rolled back, and Pongwiffy found herself staring into the
repulsive, lumpy countenance of Plugugly, the biggest Goblin. “Yer?” he growled,
scratching unpleasantly and glaring at Pongwiffy with small, red, piggy eyes.

“How many more? How many more verses to that wretched song?” demanded
Pongwiffy in a shrill voice.

“Derrrrrr…” Plugugly thought deeply, his brow creased in concentration.
Math wasn’t his strong point.

“Wait dere,” he said, and vanished to confer with the others inside.
Pongwiffy tapped her foot impatiently while the whispered arguments went on, and
grimly fingered the Wand which hung on a dirty string around her neck.
Eventually Plugugly returned.

“Ninety-two,” he said. “Yer.”

“Over my dead body,” Pongwiffy said.

“If you like,” Plugugly said, leering.

“Do you realise,” snapped Pongwiffy in her firmest, no-nonsense voice. “Do
you realise that you have brought my ceiling down? You’ve quite ruined my supper
party. You’ve upset my stew, not to mention my best friend. I haven’t slept a
wink for days—not since you moved in. Every night I have to listen to your
caterwauling. There’s a limit to my patience. Who d’you think you are anyway?”

“Goblins,” said Plugugly with the confidence that comes from having the body
of a bolster topped with a face like an old, squeezed tea bag. “Goblins. Dat’s
what we is. And we does what we likes.”

“Oh you do, do you? And suppose I put a spell on you, and
banish you from
this cave?”
Pongwiffy produced this ace from her sleeve with an air of
triumph.

“Derrrrrr… wait dere,” ordered Plugugly, and retreated inside again.
Pongwiffy waited. After a few moments, he returned.

“You better come in,” he said. “Yer.”

It was grim and gloomy in the Goblin cave. The air was thick with dense smoke
curling from the torches jammed into crevices in the walls. There was an
overpowering smell of Goblin, which threatened to overwhelm even Pongwiffy’s
own personal odour—and that’s not easy, as you would know if you ever stood
downwind of her. Holding her nose, she peered around.

One hundred and sixty-eight small, red, piggy eyes peered right back at her.
Everywhere she looked, there were Goblins. They sneered from the shadows,
scoffed in the corners and gibbered and jeered in the gloom.

Some wore the Traditional Goblin Uniform, which is baggy trousers held up
with braces, and, of course, the time-honoured bobbly hat. Others wore stolen
leather jackets dripping with chains and studs. These were members of an outlaw
Goblin brood from a grotto high in the Misty Mountains. They called themselves
the Grottys, and would dearly have liked to own motor bikes. So far, however,
they only possessed one rusty tricycle between them which they took turns
falling off.

There were lizard-like, scaly Goblins, grossly fat Goblins, hairy Goblins,
bald Goblins, drooling Goblins, scraggy little weasly ones with long noses, tall
spindly ones with short noses, and Goblins with humps, lumps, and bumps in the
most surprising places. All of them wore huge boots, all had small red piggy
eyes, and all looked and smelt as though they had crawled out of a blocked-up
drain.

“Roight, boys!” said Plugugly. “Bit of ’ush if you
please.
Our
neighbour wants a word. Yer.”

The Goblins sniggered and nudged each other.

“Yes,” said Pongwiffy severely. “I do. I’m getting very tired of you lot. In
fact, I’m not putting up with another minute of it. You’ve brought my ceiling
down. My best friend’s not speaking to me and my hot water bottle’s punctured.
It’s a disgrace. In fact, I’m seriously thinking of casting a Spell of
Banishment on you. What do you say to that, eh?”

To her surprise, none of the Goblins looked the least bit worried. In fact,
several of them tittered. One even
yawned.

“So I’m warning you now,” continued Pongwiffy uneasily. “Any more noise, and
that’s it. Whoosh, gone, the pack of you.”

“Let’s see yer do it,” croaked Slopbucket, sidling closer.

“Her her her. Yer, let’s see yer do it!” was the general cry.

“I will!” threatened Pongwiffy. “I will, too. Unless you promise to remove
your boots and whisper from now on. Do you?”

“NO!” came the howled chorus. “NO! NO! NO!” And they cheered and began a slow
hand clap as Pongwiffy seized her Wand and held it aloft.

Now, that was very odd, for a Witch’s Wand is guaranteed to put fear into the
heart of any Goblin. Brutes, bullies and thorough-going pests that they are,
they have one disadvantage, apart from being stupid. They Can’t Work Magic.

Pongwiffy gave her Wand a little shake to make sure it was working. Green
sparks crackled at the tip and it began to hum. All was well.

“Here I go! One Banishing Spell coming up!” And she began the chant.

Blow you winds with all your might,

Blow these Goblins from my sight.

Where you blow them I don’t care,

’Long as they’re not here, but there!

Nothing happened. The Goblins nudged each other, grinning. Pongwiffy frowned at her Wand
and tried again.

Blow you winds with might and main,

Goblins drive me quite insane.

Take them to a cavern deep

So I can get a good night’s sleep!

Still nothing. Then she became aware of wheezing chortles and horrible
strangled snorting noises.
The Goblins were laughing!

They fell about, digging each other in the ribs and hooting with mirth.

“I don’t understand it,” mumbled Pongwiffy, staring aghast at her Wand, which
had ceased to spark, or even hum,
and had a knot in it!
“It’s always
worked before…”

“It’s quite simple, really,” explained Plugugly, mopping his streaming eyes.
“It’s like this, yer see.
We bin banished already!
To this ’ere cave. So
you’re stuck wiv us. Har har har!”

“What?”

“True as I’m standin’ ’ere, ain’t it, boys? It were a Wizard what
done it. At our lass place. ’E comes complainin’ about the noise, see, just like
you. We gives ’im a bit o’ lip, see, an’ in the end ’e declares us a—what were
it again?”

“Public Nuisance!” roared the Goblins with great pride.

“Yer, dat’s it. Public Noosunse. So ’e gives us the boot ’n banishes us ’ere.
An’ ’ere we gorra stay. Fer ever.
So your feeble ole spells won’t work!”
Which was true. Wizard Magic is strong stuff, and not easily undone.

“Her her her,” wheezed Plugugly, shoulders heaving. “Worra laugh ain’t it,
eh?”

“No,” snapped Pongwiffy coldly. “It isn’t.”

“Tell yer what, though,” continued Plugugly. “We can come to a—wassit called
again?”

“Compromise?” said Pongwiffy hopefully.

“Yer, dassit. Compromise. You don’t come round ’ere again complainin’, and we
won’t smash yer place up. ’Ows that sound? Reesnubbo?” It didn’t sound reasonable
at all. Pongwiffy glared into his grinning, stupid face and debated whether to
punch him on the nose or move out the next day.

She moved out the next day.

“It’s very kind of you to put me up, Sharky,” said Pongwiffy to Sharkadder
one week later. They were in the kitchen of Sharkadder’s small cottage in Witchway Wood at the time.

“That’s all right, Pong,” lied Sharkadder with fingers crossed behind her
back. She had, of course, forgiven Pongwiffy for the disastrous supper party.
After all, it hadn’t been her fault, as Sharkadder had to admit when Pongwiffy
had grovelled long enough.

However, there was a limit to friendship. Pongwiffy had been sleeping in Sharkadder’s spare room for over a week now, and was showing no signs of moving
out. Sharkadder was a houseproud Witch, as Witches go, and Pongwiffy was a
Witch of Dirty Habits.

They were sitting at the breakfast table. Sharkadder, who was slimming, had
made do with a glass of fresh newt juice. Pongwiffy, who wasn’t, had worked her
way through two plates of lice crispies, three griffin eggs, a pile of toast
with jellyfish jam and thirteen cups of hot bogwater. She had also finished the
trifle from the night before.

“I suppose I’ll have to start looking for a place of my own one day,” said
Pongwiffy, licking the trifle plate clean.

“Oh, really? What a pity,” said Sharkadder insincerely. “I’ll just go and get
the paper, then. We’ll see if there’s anything suitable.” And without even
bothering to put on her lipstick, she ran out the door with what Pongwiffy
considered to be indecent haste.

Pongwiffy finished up Sharkadder’s newt juice and went to the cupboard to
raid the biscuit tin, keeping a close eye on Dead Eye Dudley. Dudley was
Sharkadder’s Familiar—a huge, battered black tom cat with one yellow eye, a
crooked tail and a very,
very
bad temper.