01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (12 page)

Currents of the wind, now take

To my shed this currant cake,

Take it steady, take it slow

One two three and off you go.

“Hey! Look at that, it’s working. See? I told you.”

Sure enough, The Cake rose several inches off the ground, wobbled a bit, then
very slowly and jerkily, gained in height until it was on a level with the tree
tops. Pongwiffy and Sharkadder watched it, squinting their eyes against the
setting sun.

“It’s slow all right, I’ll grant you that,” said Sharkadder, pulling
worriedly at her nose. “I’m not so sure about steady, though.”

“It’ll get there,” said Pongwiffy, watching The Cake lose height, gain it,
lose it again, wobble off in totally the wrong direction, wobble back again,
hesitate, narrowly avoid a head-on collision with a surprised eagle, dither
uncertainly, then finally drift off to vanish behind a peak. “I think.”

Now, this happened on a Tuesday. Remember the significant thing about
Tuesday? It’s the
Goblins’ Hunting Night!
They were plodding back to
their cave, trying hard to look forward to their supper, which was last night’s
warmed-up salt-flavoured water because, as usual, they hadn’t succeeded in
catching anything.

Well, let’s be fair and give credit where it’s due. Young Sproggit, at great
risk to himself, had at one point made a flying tackle and brought a small glow
worm to its knees. But they all agreed that it was too small to divide
satisfactorily into seven bits, and wasn’t worth the trouble of carrying all the
way home. So Sproggit let it go again.

Apart from that brief drama, the hunt had followed its usual pattern of
checking empty traps, crashing around and bumping into trees, losing each other,
falling into swamps and ditches, trying to talk like carrots in case rabbits
were listening, and holding their hunting bags wide open in the hopes that
something might jump in. Nothing did, of course. It never does. You’d think
they’d learn.

They were so fed up, they almost started fighting then and there—but agreed
that perhaps they should wait until they got home, otherwise there would be
nothing to do until they drank the warmed-up, salt-flavoured water at
midnight—traditionally the Goblin’s supper time. It was a silly Tradition, as
they were always starving long before then—but all Goblin Traditions are silly,
as we know. Of course, nobody thought of moving supper time forward by an hour
or so. That’s Goblins for you.

Anyway. Home, the Goblins were trudging, sulky and defeated, not even
bothering to sing. Most had their bobble hats firmly pulled down over their
faces as protection against bumping into trees. They couldn’t see the trees, of
course, because their hats were over their faces.

One, however, was hatless, having caught a loose thread on an overhanging
branch the minute he had left the cave that evening. The hat had gradually
unravelled during the course of the hunt, and although his brains seemed a
little chillier than usual, he noticed nothing particularly out of the ordinary
until somebody pointed out his bare head and the line of wool trailing all over
the wood, tying up the trees in a sort of gigantic, tangled cat’s cradle.

The bare-headed Goblin was looking up at the moon, wondering if it was indeed
made of cheese, and if so, was it the ripe, round, smelly sort or the kind that
comes in thin slices? It couldn’t be the sort that came in little triangles, for
the shape was all wrong. Though, come to think of it, so is the shape of the
thin slices…

You will gather from this that the hatless Goblin who was looking up at the
moon was incredibly stupid. He was also incredibly big. Got it? Yes, it was our
old friend, Plugugly, and because he leads such a dull life with those brains of
his, it seems only fair to let him be the first to spot the flying Cake.

“Derrrrrr…” he croaked, eyes bulging, nudging everyone furiously and
pointing upward. “Will you look at dat! Dat’s a flying cup, dat is!”

“Saucer, you mean,” said young Sproggit cockily. “The saucer’s what goes
under the cup, see, to catch the drips. The cup’s what you drink out of.”

“Yer?” said Plugugly wonderingly. “’Sfunny, I always do it the uvver way
round.”

Silence fell as the Goblins watched The Cake. It was acting rather strangely,
zig zagging across the sky, plummeting down, zooming up high, obviously unsure
of where it was going.

“Snorra saucer, anyway,” remarked Hog, adding wisely, “You kin tell. Too fat
fer a saucer.”

“He’s right,” agreed Slopbucket. “But if issnorra saucer, warrisit?”

“Issa U.F.O., dat’s what,” said Eyesore.

“Wassat?”

“I dunno, do I? Unattractive Female Ostrich?”

“Nah. ’Snorra
nostrich.
Can’t fly, kin they?”

“You got any better ideas den?”

“Yer, issa spaceship, dat’s worritiz. ’N iss gonna land, an’ norrible ugly
little green fings is gonner come out and take over de world!”

“Per’aps we’d better run fer it, den.”

“Nah. ’Old yer ground. Can’t be uglier than us, kin they?”

The Cake was hovering directly over their heads. They watched it a moment
longer, then Plugugly cleared his throat. “Know what I fink dat is? I fink da’ts
A Cake. An’ if issa Cake, I fink we should foller it an’ see where it lands, an’
den… an’ den steal it, yer, steal it, an’ den… an’
den…” Plugugly’s brains got in a knot at that point, but the Goblins caught his drift.

“Yer! Eat it! Her her her, eat it! Hooray!” they yelled, throwing their hats
in the air and kicking each other excitedly. Above them, The Cake suddenly
remembered where it was going and floated off again, so the Goblins hastily got
into hunting formation and tiptoed after it with much uncouth bellowing and
disgustingly greedy howls.

Now, if you remember, Pongwiffy’s Spell of Transport ordered the air currents
to take The Cake to her garden shed. It was an old, creaky, inefficient sort of
spell which is hardly ever used these days. Wands are so much better, in the way
that calculators are generally more fast and reliable than sums worked out in
yellow crayon on the back of an old envelope.

The Magic controlling the air currents was primitive Magic, the sort of Magic
that couldn’t really cope with unexpected circumstances. Like the shed being
locked.

These unreliable air currents, having taken The Cake around the air
equivalent of winding country lanes instead of straight as the crow flies,
finally got it to Pongwiffy’s shed. The large padlock on the door was a major
technical hitch, and they had no idea how to cope with it. They therefore simply
deposited their burden gently in Pongwiffy’s prize nettle patch and blew away,
eager to get back and play amongst the pine trees on the mountain.

All would have been well if Pongwiffy had come straight home. She would most
probably have arrived before The Cake, and the shed would have been unlocked and
everything would have been hunky dory. However, it didn’t happen that way.

Halfway home, she suffered a rather unpleasant attack of air sickness
(brought on, no doubt, by too many marzipan frogs and stolen doughnuts) and had
to order the Broom to make an emergency landing on a village green. There, she
drank a great deal of water from the pump, and lay around moaning feebly and
holding her stomach while the Broom idled around and struck up a conversation
with a nearby lawn mower.

Sharkadder, who had also pinched some marzipan frogs but had the will-power
to save them for later, flew straight home, lulled into a false sense of security
by Pongwiffy’s assurances that the spell would work and that anyway, she
(Pongwiffy) would definitely arrive back before The Cake did, and would make
absolutely sure it was safely settled down for the night, so no worries, no
problems, etc. etc.

Of course, Sharkadder should have worried. If, instead of climbing into her
dressing gown and slapping on several layers of bedtime cleansing mud, she had
gone to check that both The Cake and Pongwiffy had arrived back, The Cake would
never have been stolen by Goblins.

But she didn’t. So it was.

* * *

“I beg your pardon? For one moment there, I thought you said The Cake had
been stolen, ha ha ha,” said Sharkadder, standing at her door in her night cap,
face crisp with dried cleansing mud, chin flaked with green marzipan, clutching
a mug of Awfultine, obviously just about to get into bed.

“I did! It has been! I
came right over, Sharky, quick as I could,” babbled poor Pongwiffy. “It wasn’t my
fault,” she added.

“Stolen? You mean…
stolen
?” said Sharkadder stupidly, unable to
take it in.

“Yes! Yes! By Goblins!”

“Goblins? If this is a joke…”

“No! No joke. It’s true.”

“Goblins have stolen The Cake? Sourmuddle’s Birthday Cake?
Cousin
Gingerbeard’s Masterpiece?”

“Yes, I keep
saying.
I know it was Goblins, because I’ve got evidence.
Look!” Pongwiffy thrust a filthy bobbly hat under Sharkadder’s nose.

“See? One of them must have dropped it. The Cake got back all right, my
nettle patch is full of icing sugar crumbs. But it couldn’t get into the shed
because of the padlock. So the Goblins must have seen it sitting there in the
garden. We’re lucky they didn’t eat it on the spot, but I know they didn’t
because there’s this trail of crumbs leading to their cave. Besides, they never
eat out. So they must have it in there, and they’ll start eating it on the first
stroke of midnight. That’s their supper time. Oh, Sharky, what are we going to
do?”

Sharkadder decided then and there what she was going to do. Without any
hesitation, she fainted clean away, right there on the doorstep. It wasn’t much
help.

Pongwiffy debated whether to revive her, and decided against it. When
Sharkadder came round she would doubtless start shouting and saying
I-told-you-so and breaking friends and things like that. Best to leave her there
and try to get The Cake back by herself. How, badness only knew—but try she
would. After all, one Witch, even without her Wand, is more than a match for a
Gaggle of Goblins. Especially if that Witch is our Pong.

* * *

The Goblins, meanwhile, could hardly believe their luck. After weeks of
coming home with nothing more than severe headaches, they had at last succeeded
in tracking down and capturing An Entire Cake. What’s more, it was a Witch’s
Birthday Cake! The Goblins couldn’t read the writing on the top, but the icing
sugar Broomsticks and Witch hats were clues which even they could understand.
There were a lot of candles, too, which meant that the birthday Witch was
probably quite old. The Goblins could only count up to ten, but all agreed that
there were lots more than that.

Lardo suggested that perhaps it was that ol’ Pongwiffy’s Birthday Cake, as it
had been captured whilst sitting in her front garden. This made them even more
gleeful. What a laugh, to eat that ol’ Pongwiffy’s Birthday Cake—wouldn’t she
be furious, har har har.

All this jollity passed the time rather pleasantly, until it was five minutes
to midnight. They were sitting in a circle on the floor, surrounding the
wonderful Cake which was set on a low barrel at the cave centre. Sproggit, the
official timekeeper, being the only one with a watch, commenced the countdown.
This was a particularly pointless Tradition, as his watch only told the time in
days and both the hands were missing. It wasn’t necessary anyway, as Goblins
always know when it’s midnight because their empty stomachs begin to itch. They
call it the Itching Hour.

Anyway. Sproggit was doing the countdown, Slopbucket was sharpening the cake
knife, and the air was filled with the horrible drooling, slobbering,
lip-smacking, stomach scratching sounds which precede every Goblin meal.

“Fifty-nine seconds…” intoned Sproggit. “Fifty-ten seconds… er… forty-twelve…”

And then it happened. Of all inconvenient things, there came a brisk knocking
at the front door—or front boulder, if you want to be fussy.

The Goblins looked at each other in alarm. Supposing it was that old
Pongwiffy, come to claim back The Cake? They hissed and gibbered fearfully as
Plugugly went to answer the boulder, which was
his
official job.

When he came back again, he wasn’t alone. With him was a Mysterious Stranger,
wearing clothing that was rather Spanish in style and carrying a wicker basket
containing bunches of heather. She looked very exotic.

Around her head was tied a spotted headscarf. She wore a blouse with big
puffy sleeves, a purple shawl, a swirly red skirt and lots of jangling
jewellery, including huge hoop earrings and a pendant in the shape of a crystal
ball. She also wore a large pair of sunglasses, which added to the air of
mystery.

We know who it is, don’t we? We’re not stupid like the Goblins. We’d know
Pongwiffy anywhere, if only by her smell. Mind you, she had done rather a good
job with her disguise. The only thing which rather spoilt the overall effect was
her boots, but that wasn’t her fault. When she tried taking them off, Hugo had
insisted she put them back on again
immediately.
So the disguise isn’t
perfect in every detail. But if you ever caught a whiff of Pongwiffy’s exposed
feet, you too would feel it was a risk worth taking.

“Good evening, kind sirs!” trilled Pongwiffy, rattling a pair of
castanets. “Buy a few pegs from the gypsy woman. Fortunes told, cross my palm
with silver, Flamenco dancing a speciality, get your lucky heather here!”

“Says she’s a fortune teller,” growled Plugugly with a jerk of his thumb.

“Indeed I am. A poor gypsy fortune teller, that’s me. I tell the best fortune
for miles around, I do.”

“It’d better be short,” said Plugugly. “Cos we’re
’avin’ our supper.”