01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits (6 page)

“Well where is it, then?” snapped Sharkadder. “What’s the big secret? Is it a
ferret or a weasel or what? Is it over by the Brooms?” She was peering around
curiously, hoping to spot an unfamiliar face.

“Now?” whispered Hugo.

“What was that?” demanded Sharkadder suspiciously. “A squeak came from under
your hat.”

“Oh
really?”
said Pongwiffy with a casual yawn. “Actually, I think you
must be mistaken, Sharky. Look, you’ve still got a hedgehog roller in. It must
have been that.”

“It was nothing of the sort! You’ve got something under there, Pongwiffy, and
if it’s your new Familiar you might at least be polite enough to introduce me.
Seeing as I did the advertisement for you.” Sharkadder stamped her foot crossly.

“Well—all right, Sharky, I do have something under there,” confessed
Pongwiffy. “But I’d sooner keep it under my hat for now, ha ha.”

“Why?” persisted Sharkadder.

“Er—too terrifying. It’ll scare you.” Back came the green spots.

“Nonsense! You’re lying to me, Pongwiffy, I can tell. In fact, there’s this
rumour going round, you know. Dudley heard it from a Toad…”

“Oh look! There’s old—er—you know. Must have a word with her!” cried
Pongwiffy, and scuttled off.

“I’ll break friends!” shouted Sharkadder after her. Pongwiffy pretended not to
hear, and made for the trestle tables. She snatched a sandwich and popped it
under her hat for Hugo. Eating was the only thing that kept him quiet.

“You’re not supposed to start on them yet,” said Bendyshanks in a bossy
voice. “Not till Grandwitch Sourmuddle arrives. You know The Rules. And why did
you put it under your hat?”

“Mind your own business,” said Pongwiffy rudely. “What would you rather I
did? Pushed it up your nose?”

Now, that is just the sort of rude comment that is sure to start an
argument—so it was just as well that at that very moment, there was
an interruption. A terrible squawling noise rent the air. Imagine a hundred cats
all having their tails pulled at the same time. It was rather like that, but
worse.

“Jumpink gerbils!” exclaimed Hugo, in his dark, stuffy cone. “Vat in ze vorld
is ’appenink?”

“Sssh. Stop scrabbling! It’s Grandwitch Sourmuddle.” And Pongwiffy stood to
attention, along with everyone else.

From out of the pine trees came a small procession. First came Agglebag and
Bagaggle, the identical twins, playing their violins. The noise they made was a
cross between a dentist’s drill and a cow with severe stomachache. They
practised every night to achieve this effect, and had it off just perfect.
IdentiKit and CopiCat twined identically in and out of their legs.

Behind them came Witch Macabre in her ceremonial tartan rags. She was riding
on her Haggis—an odd looking creature called Rory with a great deal of shaggy
fur and a daft looking ginger fringe which hung down over its eyes, causing it to
trip up every third or fourth step. To add to the racket, Witch Macabre was
playing her bagpipes, breaking off every so often to shout, “Oot o’ the way, ye
sassanachs! Make way foor Wee Grandwitch Sourmuddle, Mistress o’ the Coven!”

Grandwitch Sourmuddle tottered along vaguely at the rear, plucking at her
long grey beard and wondering what she was doing there. She was so old, she
tended to forget things. On her shoulder sat Snoop, her demon Familiar, looking
bored.

The procession came to a halt before the bonfire. Agglebag and Bagaggle
played their final ear-splitting chord with a flourish, and the drone of the
bagpipes wheezed to a halt. There was a general sigh of relief, and everyone
waited respectfully for the Grandwitch to speak her important first words.

“Where am I?” she said. Snoop whispered in her ear.

“Yes, yes, I can see
that,
Snoop. I can see I’m on Crag Hill. But
what’s the occasion? My birthday or something? Where’s the cake?”

“It’s the monthly Sabbat, Grandwitch. You’re supposed to do your speech,” Snoop reminded
her, as he always did.

“Speech, you say? What, before I blow out the candles?”

“There are no candles. There is no cake. Just the usual meeting,” said Snoop
patiently.

“They could have made me a cake. Mean old hags,” whined Sourmuddle.

“It’s not your birthday. Just the usual meeting.”

The assembled throng yawned and shuffled, rather hoping Grandwitch Sourmuddle
would retire soon.

“Do your speech. Then we can have the sandwiches,” suggested Snoop.

“Sandwiches? That’s all there ever is, stale old sandwiches. Oh well, better
get started I suppose. Hail, Witches!”

“Hail!” came the response, and as always a small cloud came hurtling through
the night sky and delivered a short, sharp burst of hailstones before scuttling
off again in a northerly direction.

“I declare this supermarket open,” announced Sourmuddle, digging hailstones
out of her ears. There was an uncertain pause while Snoop whispered again,
making impatient gestures with his small, green webbed hands.

“Sorry, Sabbat. I declare this Sabbat open.”

“Hooray!” shouted the Witches, and fell upon the sandwiches. Snoop tutted and
spoke urgently into Sourmuddle’s ear.

“Oh. Right. HOLD IT!”

Agglebag and Bagaggle played a single, important sounding discord on their
violins, and Witch Macabre raised her bagpipes threateningly to her lips. The
Haggis blew the fringe out of his eyes and gave a warning cough. Everyone stood
stock still, sandwiches half in and half out of mouths.

“News time first,” ordered Sourmuddle. “Then I cut the cake. Now, has anyone
got any news we should hear? Any new spells? Anyone done anything particularly
horrible to a Goblin? No? Right then, in that case…”

“Wait!” Sharkadder pointed an accusing finger at Pongwiffy, who guessed what
was coming and cringed.

“Pongwiffy’s got some news!” announced Sharkadder in a clear, firm voice.
“She’s hired a new Familiar.”

Everyone turned and looked at Pongwiffy. The Familiars rustled and flapped
and looked expectant.

“Eh? Oh. Well, come on then, Pongwiffy, but make it snappy. I want to open my
birthday presents. Up to the fire.”

Wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, Pongwiffy slowly walked
towards the fire, which is where you have to stand if you have news to tell.
Under her hat, Hugo busily attended to his whiskers and brushed the crumbs from
his chin. He wanted to look smart for his first appearance.

“Go on, Pong!” called Sharkadder in a mean sort of way. “Don’t be shy.
Introduce us to your Familiar.”

Twelve white bony faces stared at Pongwiffy expectantly.

“She says it’s terrifying. That’s all she’d tell me. Although I used to be
her best friend and even wrote the advertisement for her,” Sharkadder told the
assembled company.

“Hurry up, Pong, we’re all waiting!” clamoured the audience.

For a brief moment, Pongwiffy considered saying a quick spell which would
transform Hugo into a wolf or a lizard, anything that wasn’t cute—but Witches
aren’t so easily deceived, and she knew that she’d never get away with it. She
gulped and took a deep breath.

“Actually…” she said. “Actually, he’s a bit shy.”

“Show us! Show us! Show us your Familiar!” came the chant, and Sharkadder
started a slow handclap.

“I’d sooner not introduce him right now, if you don’t mind…”

“Boo! Against The Rules!” Which it was. Witches have the right to know about
each other’s Familiars. That way, no one has an unfair advantage.

It was no good. Pongwiffy knew that her hour of doom was at hand. Better to
get the whole embarrassing thing over and done with.

“All right!” she said sulkily. “If you must know, he’s under my hat. And he’s
a… he’s a… actually, he’s a Hamster.”

There was a terrible, sickening pause which seemed to go on for ever.
Then—which was worse—The Laughter began. It started as titters. Little sniggers
and snickers, and the odd tee-hee. Then came chuckles and chortles, followed
closely by hoots and guffaws. The Witches cackled, cawed, jeered, scoffed,
shrieked, bellowed, howled and gibbered. Witches hung on to each other for
support. Witches banged their heads against nearby trees. Witches pointed
shaking fingers at Pongwiffy then collapsed to the ground, clutching their sides
and gasping for breath.

Oh, the shame of it.

Pongwiffy hung her head as the waves of derision rolled over her. She would
never live it down. She would have to move hovel and go far, far away where
nobody knew her.

And under her hat, Hugo’s eyes began to turn red.

“A Hamster! Oh, I can’t bear it!” howled Bendyshanks, rolling around in the
leaves and kicking her legs in the air.

“Where is he? Show us your Hamster, Pongwiffy! Terrify us!” begged
Sludgegooey.

The Familiars were exchanging superior sideways glances with each other. They
wanted to laugh too, but were used to taking their cue from Dudley. And Dudley
wasn’t laughing. Dudley was sneering. His single yellow eye blazed and his
crooked tail whipped from side to side. Menacingly, he swaggered forward,
muscles rippling.

“Well now, boys,” he drawled. “A ’amster, be it? A
’amster seekin’ to join the crew? What’ll it be next, I asks meself? A Christmas tree fairy?”

The Familiars fell about laughing. Dudley raised a paw, and there was instant
silence.

“Let’s be havin’ a look at this ’ere ’amster,”
continued Dudley. “Let’s see what we’m up against. Must admit
to bein’ curious. Seems to me Witch Familiar
bain’t a suitable job for a ’amster. Weak, fluffy little things as a rule.”

Crouched in the darkness of Pongwiffy’s hat, Hugo was beside himself. How
dare
they laugh at him! And as for the owner of that sneering voice—just let
him wait! Blind with rage, he threw himself at the walls of the hat, tearing at
the lining with his sharp little teeth.

“Not a suitable job at all,” came Dudley’s hateful hiss again. “Seems to me
this ’ere ’amster’s got delusions of grandeur, lads, what say you? A kiddy’s
pet, that’s more like what an ’amster should be.”

That did it. From beneath Pongwiffy’s hat came a shrill squeal of outrage.
Both Witches and Familiars took an involuntary step back, their mouths dropping
open. Pongwiffy snatched off her tall hat and revealed what looked at first
sight to be a maddened nail brush on top of her head.

“This is Hugo,” announced Pongwiffy. “He’s from Amsterdam. And he doesn’t
like being called a pet, Dudley. Not one little bit.”

Hugo descended in three easy steps—head to shoulder, shoulder to hand, hand
to ground. He landed within inches of Dudley’s nose. The firelight reflected red
in his eyes. His whiskers were seething, his teeth were gnashing, his ears were
flattened, his back was arched, his fur was standing on end. Cute he wasn’t.
Even Pongwiffy edged away from him.

Dudley, however, that tough, battle scarred veteran, stood his ground. Slowly
he licked his lips and smiled a thin, cold cat smile.

“Say zat again!” raged Hugo. “Say zat again, you old bag of vind. Who you
sink you is? I tell you vat you is. A bus for ze fleas, zat’s vat! I see zem
’opping on and off from ’ere!”

A gasp went up from the Witches and Familiars alike. Nobody ever spoke that
way to Dudley.

“Well well,” scoffed Dudley. “So it’s mutiny, eh? Lookin’ for trouble, are
ye, little feller? Wantin’ ter challenge the Cap’n. Well, I ought ter teach yer
a lesson, I s’pose, but tain’t right. You’m just too small. I bain’t that much
of a bully. I expect yer mummy’ll spank yer bottom, save me the trouble. Go play
on yer wheel sonny. Off with ye, before I change me mind. Go and be some little
kid’s pet.” And with a sneer, Dudley turned his back and prepared to swagger
away.

MEEEEAAAAOOOEEEERGROO!!

We all recognise that, don’t we? It’s almost exactly the same as that blood
curdling howl invented by Pongwiffy when Hugo did his earring impression.
Perhaps a little different. This time, Hugo had opted for the tail.

Dudley whirled round, shaking his head in pain and astonishment. Of course,
the source of the agony was still behind him. He tried lashing his tail to shake
Hugo off. Hugo merely bit harder. Dudley skittered backwards, wriggling his rear
end and roaring such dreadful piratical curses that even the Witches were
shocked.

“Terrific isn’t he?” said Pongwiffy proudly to Sharkadder, who was rooted to
the spot, frozen with horror as she watched the contortions of her darling.

“Get off!
Get off me tail,
ye pint sized pom pom off a pirate’s bobbly
hat! I’ll trim yer sails! I’ll run ye aground! I’ll scupper ye, rot me for a
ship’s biscuit else! I’ll mangle ye with me binnacle! Meeeahhhhh!”

Hugo hung on.

“Threats don’t work,” explained Pongwiffy knowledgeably to the fascinated
audience.

She was right. They didn’t. Neither did the Running Up And Down Hill, the
Leaping Into The Air, the Twisting Around in Circles or the rasped orders to the
Lads to Come To His Aid. None of the Familiars was prepared to risk it. This
little Hamster was quite something. He simply hung on and hung on with the
sticking power of a limpet dipped in superglue—and finally, Dudley could take no
more.