by Kaye Umansky
She broke off. She stared. She rubbed her eyes and stared again.
The Goblins, frozen in the light, stared back like rabbits who suddenly find themselves in the fast lane of the motorway.
It was Pongwiffy who broke the spell. Howling with outrage, she launched herself across the glade. With one accord, the Goblins dropped everything they were holding and took to their heels. The front end of the Pantomime Horse, having the advantage of limited vision, attempted to do the same. The back end, however, remained where it was. Sproggit hadn’t a clue what was going on and nobody thought to tell him. The consequence was that the front legs did a lot of mad, panicky galloping on the spot, whereas the back legs had about as much forward momentum as a screwed-down table.
‘Wot you doin?’ squawked Sproggit’s muffled voice. ‘Wot’s happenin’? Why you tuggin’ me like that?’
‘We bin rumbled!’ wailed Plugugly. ‘It’s dat ol’ Pongwiffy! She’s seen us! Quick, Sproggit – run! One, two, six – keep in rhythm, for cryin’ out loud – five, eight, nine . . .’
Crazily, they veered off into the trees. You might have thought things couldn’t get any worse for them – but things did.
THUMP!
A crashing weight landed on top of them. They staggered and only just avoided falling to their knees in the snow.
‘Hold it right there, gee-gee!’ ground out Pongwiffy, wrapping her arms tightly around the Pantomime Horse’s head. ‘I said stop, d’you hear?’
‘Don’t stop!’ gasped Plugugly. ‘We can shake ’er off . . . keep goin’ . . .’
And amazingly, despite the snow and the dark and the fact that they were bent double inside a horse suit with a very angry Witch on their back, they did keep going. And right behind them came Romeo, tugging the cart in his wake. His beloved had gone and he must follow! Hampers full of costumes came crashing down, spilling their contents into the snow as he galloped off in hot pursuit.
And that was the last anyone saw of any of them for quite a while.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Great Escape
Time now to move to another part of Witchway Wood, where another dramatic scene is taking place. This one is set in a mysterious cave – and it stars none other than Ronald!
He had come across the cave by chance some weeks earlier when he was plodding past on his way to yet another dreaded rehearsal, daydreaming about his Invisibility Serum and how it would change his life.
Poor Ronald. He hated rehearsals. Pongwiffy never got to his bit and he had spent every night for the past few weeks hanging around in the wings being ignored. It really is time he took a starring role.
The cave was set in a mossy bank and partially hidden by the branches of a willow tree. He had noticed it out of the corner of his eye and gone to investigate. He was struck right away by its possibilities as a secret laboratory in which he could conduct his final experiment.
The cave had several advantages:
1. It would be more private. Things had been getting difficult back at the Clubhouse. The rumour had got round that he was doing secret research in his room and he was getting funny looks.
2. A cave was safer. You never could tell with Magic. Sometimes things could go a bit wrong. Noisy explosions might occur. There could be embarrassing side effects. Best to be on the safe side.
3. Magic worked better in caves. Things looked better. It was all to do with atmosphere – shadows, drips, echoes and stuff. Doing it in your bedroom with your teddy looking on just wasn’t the same.
So, in the interests of privacy, safety and the look of the thing, Ronald had secretly moved all his paraphernalia to the cave in readiness for the first snowfall. Everything was there – the little jars and test tubes, the Bunsen burner and the crucible and so on, all set up ready and waiting, including a captive toad in a cardboard box with air-holes. Ronald was pretty sure that his serum would work – but he didn’t fancy being the first to try it out.
He had just started out for yet another rehearsal when the first flakes began to fall. Fresh Snow, at last! This was what he had been waiting for. Blow rehearsal. Blow princess-kissing. Blow everything. This was his Big Night – and nobody was going to take it away from him.
So, instead of making for Witchway Hall, he had made a beeline for his secret cave. Right now, he was on his knees, adjusting the Bunsen burner, waiting for his mixture to come to the boil. The flame was burning steadily and the serum was beginning to simmer. So far, so good.
The toad watched him unblinkingly from a nearby rock.
‘Don’t you move, mind,’ Ronald warned it. ‘Try and escape, and you’ll be jolly sorry, I can tell you. I shall place a Spell of Binding on you that’ll give you pins and needles for a fortnight. I don’t really want to mix two spells up, because it might affect the results. But I will if I have to. What d’you say to that, eh?’
‘Ribbit,’ said the toad to that. Actually, it could speak excellent English but at this point it didn’t want to commit itself.
‘You’re my guinea pig, you know,’ Ronald told it.
The toad turned a pitying look on him. What was this idiot blithering on about? It was a toad. Anyone could see that.
Ronald turned back to the crucible and gave it a stir. The mixture steamed. He sat back on his heels and watched it, cheeks red from heat and nervous anticipation.
‘Know what this is?’ Ronald asked the toad, who shrugged. ‘It’s my masterpiece. Extra Strong Invisibility Serum. And it’s going to make me rich and famous.’
There was a pause.
‘Ribbit?’ said the toad, feeling that something was called for.
‘Oh, yes. Really. One little sprinkle of this and pff! You’re gone. Vamoosed. Disappeared. Vanished. Impressive, eh?’
The toad eyed the mouth of the cave and said nothing.
‘Ha!’ chuckled Ronald. ‘I’ll show those Witches they can’t boss me around. I’ve got it all planned, you know. When they come looking for me, I’ll just coolly sprinkle myself with the serum and vanish before their very eyes. Imagine their faces! And I won’t show up again until after the pantomime’s over. No more Prince Charming – and there’ll be nothing they can do about it. Aha! We’ve reached boiling point. Get ready, toad. Snow Time!’
Eagerly, he rose to his feet, ran to the cave mouth and snatched up an old bucket which had been placed just outside to catch the falling snow. He hurried back, stepped up to the fire, adopted a suitably dramatic pose, lifted the bucket on high and solemnly intoned the Magic words: ‘Oggyoggyoggy! Oi, oi, oi! Come on, you serum!’
Then, with great ceremony, he upended the bucket and tipped the snow into the crucible. There was an almighty sizzling, a bang, a puff of purple smoke – and that was it. The crucible now contained a quantity of thin, colourless liquid with a slight oily sheen. Done. Finished. One Extra Strong Invisibility Serum. Now all he had to do was test it out.
Using an old tea towel, Ronald carefully removed the crucible from the heat, then turned to the toad with an unconvincing bedside-manner smile.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sit still. This won’t hurt a bit. I’m just going to sprinkle you.’
‘Sprinkle yourself, pal, I’m gone,’ said the toad. And with a huge leap, it shot over Ronald’s head and out of the cave.
‘Hey!’ shouted Ronald, startled. ‘You come right back here!’
Still holding the precious pot of serum, he raced from the cave and out into the snowy Wood.
And that was when things went horribly, horribly wrong. As he stood peering hesitantly around, there came the sound of howling. Crashing footsteps were heading his way. Startled, he looked up – and to his dismay, he saw five screaming Goblins bearing down on him on a collision course!
He gave a horrified gasp, took a step backwards in order to get out of their path – and his heel caught on a half-buried twig. Arms flailing, he tried to regain his balance as his feet slithered away from under him. The crucible flew from his hand. Up, up, it flew. Drops of precious l
iquid came raining down on the heads of the stampeding Goblin horde – and in a split second, before Ronald’s very eyes . . . they disappeared! Simply twinkled out of existence. Just like that.
The only evidence of their passing was a line of jumbled footprints making off into the distance, accompanied by receding howls, like the wail of a runaway express train. Then even the howls dwindled away, and once again peace reigned.
Slowly – ever so slowly – Ronald sat up. He spat out a mouthful of snow and gingerly felt himself all over. His eyes flickered towards the crucible, which lay on its side in the snow. With a little moan, he flopped over on to his knees and crawled towards it. With a shaking hand, he picked it up and peered inside.
There was a spoonful left! Oh, thank you, thank you! All was not lost!
Sobbing with relief he staggered to his feet and turned back to the cave, clutching the crucible with its few remaining drops to his chest.
That was when he was hit in the back by a large, red-spotted Pantomime Horse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Show Must Go On
I can’t understand it,’ said Sourmuddle, peering into her crystal ball. ‘I should be able to locate them by Magic, but there’s not a glimpse of them in my ball, and none of the Search and Find spells work. It’s like the whole lot of them have vanished from the face of the earth. Highly mysterious.’
It was the following morning. The Coven, greatly excited by all the drama, had gathered at Witchway Hall for a hastily convened emergency meeting. Also present was Ernest Dribble, looking rather uncomfortable in his role of sole eyewitness to the dramatic events of the night before. There were rather too many pointy hats around for comfort.
The only absentees were Hugo, Sharkadder and Dudley, who were presumably still out trawling the snowy Wood in a hunt for Pongwiffy. Either that or, as Sludgegooey unkindly remarked, home in their beds enjoying a few blissful hours without her.
‘Tell us again what you saw, Mr Dribble,’ ordered Sourmuddle.
‘I told yer,’ mumbled Ernest Dribble. ‘It were Goblins. Them ones I seen earlier on. They musta followed me. They was over by the cart, muckin’ about with the costumes, an’ a couple of ’em ’ad the ’oss skin on, an’ when they sees us they all makes a run fer it, an’ then she goes an’ takes a running jump an’ lands on the ’oss an’ they takes off into the Wood an’ my Romeo, ’e takes off after ’em! ’E’s a bit of a lad when it comes to the ladies,’ he added, with a touch of mournful pride.
‘Stupid, though,’ remarked Sourmuddle. ‘Seeing he can’t even recognise his own species.’
‘That don’t stop me bein’ fond of ’im,’ snivelled Ernest Dribble. ‘ ’E’s out somewhere in the cold, snowy wastes, eatin’ ’is ’eart out, an’ I miss ’im.’
He took out a grubby hanky and blew his nose.
‘I don’t know what you’re moaning about,’ remarked Ratsnappy. ‘You’ve only lost a lovesick carthorse. We’ve lost a vital costume and our director, and it’s opening night tomorrow.’
Everyone’s stomachs flipped over at the thought.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Bendyshanks worriedly. ‘I mean, supposing Pongwiffy doesn’t turn up? Who’s going to organise tonight’s dress rehearsal and tell us what to do and keep the Rhythm Boys in order and make all the decisions? Somebody’s got to direct.’
There was an anxious silence. Even Sourmuddle looked uneasy. Grandwitch she might be, but when it came to the pantomime, Pongwiffy was the undisputed boss.
Bendyshanks asked the one question they were all privately thinking.
‘Can we do it without Pongwiffy? Do you think we ought to cancel?’
‘Cancel?’ said a voice from the doorway, making everyone jump. ‘Cancel? Is you crazy?’
It was Hugo.
Eyes blazing, he scuttled down the aisle and up on to the stage. Everybody stared as he climbed on to Pongwiffy’s empty chair and gazed sternly around at the assembled company.
‘So!’ he said scathingly. ‘Is zis ’ow ve say sank you to Mistress for all ’er ’ard vork? Vun leetle problem and ve cancel? No, I tell you! No, no, no! She ’ave a dream, my mistress. She dream zat zis great show of ours vill pass into ze ’istory books! And now, just ven she need us most, you talk zis sissy cancel talk! Pah!’
There fell a guilty little silence. Everyone looked at each other.
Greymatter cleared her throat.
‘Well, if you put it like that –’
‘ ’Course I put it like zat! So vot if Mistress gone missink? She turn up. Meanwhile, ze show must go on.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘But who’s going to direct?’
‘Me,’ said Hugo simply. ‘Pongviffy, she say to me, “Ugo, if anythink ’appen to me, you must take over and be ze director.” ’
He crossed his paws behind his back. Actually, Pongwiffy had said nothing of the sort, but it was worth a try.
There was a bit of general muttering. His rousing speech had gone down pretty well on the whole, but the last bit was greeted with a mixed reception. There were some who weren’t too happy at the thought of being directed by a Hamster.
‘We’ll take a vote on it,’ decided Sourmuddle. ‘Hands up who wants the show to go on?’
Everyone’s hand shot up.
‘And who thinks they can direct it better than Hugo?’
Hands dropped like leaves in autumn.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘Hugo’s appointed as the new director, and everyone has to do what he says except me, because I’m Grandwitch and I can do what I like.’
‘But what about the costumes?’ asked Sludgegooey. ‘Some of them fell in the snow. They’re all dirty. And a couple of the swords have gone soggy.’
‘Ve vash ze costumes, ve fix ze swords,’ said the new director briskly.
‘But what about the Pantomime Horse?’ piped up Bendyshanks.
‘No problem. Ve cut it.’
‘But what about Gaga? She doesn’t have a part now.’
Everyone looked at Gaga, who had gone very small and sad, quite unlike herself.
‘Ve find ’er sumsink else to do,’ announced Hugo. ‘She can be Usherette. Show people to zeir seats. Viz big, shiny torch. And sell ice cream at ze interval.’
It was an inspired suggestion. Instantly, a gigantic, sunny smile split Gaga’s face. A big torch and ice cream! Hey! She could do a lot with those. She jumped up on her chair and performed a jolly little dance, then solemnly stood on her head.
‘Nice to see her back to normal,’ remarked Ratsnappy, and everyone agreed.
‘So,’ said Hugo. ‘Is decided. Tonight, ve ’ave dress rehearsal as planned. And tomorrow night, ve open!’
Smiling and chattering, everybody pushed their chairs back, ready to leave.
‘Just a minute,’ said Sourmuddle, holding up a hand. Everybody sighed and sat back down again. ‘I’m as keen on the pantomime as the next person, but we can’t just sit back and let those Goblins get away with it. I didn’t get where I am today by letting Goblins get away with things. They have to be caught and punished in a proper manner.’
‘She’s right, you know,’ muttered the Witches. ‘They should be.’
‘I’m not so bothered about Pongwiffy,’ continued Sourmuddle, ‘because I’m sure Hugo’s right and she’ll turn up sooner or later – but we have to get that horse suit back. It’s a very expensive costume, and if it’s lost or damaged, we have to pay for it.’
Just at that moment the door opened again. This time, it was Sharkadder. For some reason, she was looking terribly pleased with herself.
‘Hello, everyone,’ she trilled. ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been on a very important mission. In fact, I’ve got the answer to all our problems. Meet Wildman Willy Racoon, famous tracker and bounty hunter and my cousin! Step in, Willy, and say hello.’
She stood aside. Behind her, arms folded and short, stocky legs akimbo, stood a Dwarf. He wore buckskin breeches, a fur-l
ined jacket and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. On his head was a fur hat complete with dangling racoon tail. He wore a lasso looped over one shoulder and a musket over the other. His face sprouted the biggest, shaggiest mad tangle of a fearsome ginger beard that it is possible for a single face to support. It was the kind of beard things live in.
‘Howdy,’ said Wildman Willy Racoon.
Everyone goggled in surprise at the unexpected visitor.
‘Willy’s agreed to help us out,’ explained Sharkadder airily. ‘He’s Cousin Pierre’s twin brother. Haven’t I ever mentioned him?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sourmuddle doubtfully. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get to the bottom of your well of obscure relations, Sharkadder. Pierre’s twin, did you say?’
‘That’s it. Pierre went into catering and Willy here went into – er – wild-manning. Didn’t you, Willy?’
‘Yup,’ said Willy and spat on the floor.
‘Yes,’ continued Sharkadder. ‘He lives up in the wilds of the Misty Mountains. Huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’, isn’t that right, Willy? Out in all weathers, sleeping under the stars, communing with nature, washing in icy mountain springs, eating beans and so forth. He came down to visit poor Cousin Pierre when he heard about the accident with the pancake mixer, didn’t you, Willy?’
‘Yup.’
‘Doesn’t say much, does he?’ said Sourmuddle.
‘Ah, well, he’s not used to talking, you see,’ explained Sharkadder. ‘Up there in the mountains, all on his own with only the stars for company. Eating beans –’
‘Yes, yes,’ butted in Sourmuddle testily. ‘I know about the beans. What I don’t know is what he’s doing here. We’ve got enough on our plate as it is without having to entertain your relations.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ cried Sharkadder. ‘Why, isn’t it obvious? He’s going to track down Pong and the Pantomime Horse, of course.’
‘Zere you are, zen!’ cried Hugo. ‘Is all sorted.’
‘And my Romeo?’ chipped in Ernest Dribble eagerly. ‘Can he find him too?’
