Even More Pongwiffy Stories

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘I can’t help it,’ argued the Thing. ‘I gotta keep busy. It’s my nature.’

  ‘Well, I forbid it! Stop it this instant and think of a plan to get us out of here! Make it quick. I’ve never liked small spaces. Come on, come on! I’m already going stir-crazy! Arggh! The walls, the walls! The walls are closing in!’

  Sheridan reached out and clutched the Thing in a panicky grip.

  ‘Calm down, boss! Take deep breaths!’ advised the Thing, smacking at the bony hands.

  ‘Get me out! Get me out!’ howled Sheridan, breaking into a cold sweat. He stumbled over to the walls and began feeling them for cracks.

  ‘I can’t, boss. There ain’t no way out. All we can do is wait until they send out a search party.’

  Sheridan suddenly stood stock-still. There was a glimmer of hope in his eye sockets.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘A rescue party. Of course. They’ll be sure to come looking when I don’t turn up, right?’

  ‘Sure to. You being such an important person an’ all. See? Now you’re thinking on the bright side.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sheridan. He took out a large white hanky and mopped his streaming brow. ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Thing. I mustn’t overreact. They’ll send out a search party. There’s one on its way right now, I imagine?’

  ‘Sure to be,’ soothed the Thing. ‘And as soon as we hear ’em coming we’ll yell out and they’ll rescue us. Before you know it, you’ll be reading out all about yourself on the news. It’ll be in the paper too, I shouldn’t wonder. Think of the publicity. Famous Celebrity Newsreader In Goblin Cave Rescue Drama. I can see the headlines now.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Sheridan. He was calmer now, but still a bit twitchy. ‘Yes, you’re right. Of course. In fact, this is probably quite a good career move. But what about poor Ribs? We still haven’t found him, have we?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Probably found his own way home by now. That, or gone wild and living with wolves.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ sighed Sheridan.

  ‘I know I am. There. Feelin’ better now?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘So can I get on with the tidyin’?’

  ‘No! Leave it, d’you hear? You take your orders from me. And right now, your job is to keep me amused. Take my mind off things. Entertain me until the rescue party arrives.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed the Thing amiably. ‘What do you want? I Spy? Charades? Fancy a sing-song?’

  ‘Oh, bother!’ cried Sheridan, curling one hand into a bony fist and smacking it into the other. ‘What did you have to say that for?’

  ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘Sing. Now you’ve gone and reminded me that it’s the Spellovision Song Contest tomorrow night and I’m presenting the trophy to the winner! I simply have to be there. I say! You don’t think there’s the slightest chance that we’ll still be here tomorrow, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said the Thing, crossing its fingers behind its back.

  ‘Tell the truth. I can take it.’

  ‘Yes, then.’

  ‘Aaargh!’ wailed Sheridan. ‘I can’t take it! I can’t! The walls are moving in again! The walls! Stop the walls!’

  ‘I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Calm down! ’Course they’ll find us. Any minute now, I expect. Tell you what. Sit down and I’ll read to you. How’s that?’

  ‘Read what? We haven’t got any books.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’ The Thing reached into its pocket, withdrew something the size of a matchbox and waved it triumphantly. ‘See? A book. Found it amongst all the rubbish.’

  ‘Really? What’s it called?’

  ‘The Little Book of Hamster Wit and Wisdom,’ read the Thing, squinting at the tiny writing.

  ‘Hmm. Odd sort of thing to turn up in a Goblins’ cave. Still. I suppose it’s better than nothing. Fire away.’

  ‘Right. Shouldn’t take long, it’s very small. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. What kind of Hamsters live at the North Pole? Cold ones. Ha, ha, get it? That’s good, that is. Here’s another one. If at first you don’t suck seed, suck, suck, suck again . . .’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Setting Up

  The Spellovision Song Contest was going to be held in Witchway Hall. It was the only place big enough to hold the huge number of contestants taking part and their armies of supporters. (The Hall might not look like much from the outside, but the interior has the useful design feature of being able to magically expand into the fourth dimension. When necessary, it can accommodate vast crowds.)

  Vast crowds were what Ali Pali confidently expected. Vast crowds and record-breaking viewing figures.

  Right now, he sat by himself in the front row, tapping numbers into his calculator and keeping an eye on the camera crew, which was busy setting up.

  Everything was going to plan. The Tree Demon was scuttling about with a big furry microphone on a stick. Vincent Van Ghoul was ducking and bobbing around the aisles, staring through the viewfinder of his spellovision camera, trying out different angles. Brenda was directing a couple of Gnomes where to put the scoreboard. The Witchway Rhythm Boys were in the orchestra pit, setting out their music stands.

  There was only one niggling worry. Sheridan Haggard and the Everything Else Boy had gone missing. Nothing had been seen or heard of them since the evening news bulletin the night before. They hadn’t turned up for the midnight news, which was highly unusual.

  Ali had rung Sheridan’s crystal ball to demand an explanation – but Sheridan wasn’t answering. Ali had sent a runner round to the castle. The runner had come back saying that the place was all locked up and the limo gone from the garage. No note of apology, no sign of foul play, nothing.

  ‘Any news, boss?’ asked Vincent Van Ghoul, squinting through his camera.

  ‘No,’ said Ali. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Vincent. ‘He’ll turn up. Catch Sheridan missing something like this. He’s probably at the tailor’s having a posh suit made for the occasion.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Ali Pali. ‘But I’m a businessman. I can’t afford to take chances. This contest must go off without a hitch. Everything is riding on it. My reputation, as well as my bank balance.’

  ‘Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve got everything under control,’ broke in a new voice. An all too familiar odour was in the air. Ali Pali whirled round, startled. Pongwiffy was sitting in the seat directly behind him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ali. ‘It’s you. What do you mean, under control?’

  ‘Meaning,’ said Pongwiffy smugly, ‘meaning that you can forget about Sheridan Haggard. I’ve come up with someone much better. I’ve written to my very good friend Scott Sinister, telling him to come along to present the prizes.’

  ‘Really?’ Ali Pali’s beam went from ear to ear. ‘But this is wonderful news! He’s really coming?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘He’ll come all right. In fact, he’ll be delighted.’

  Actually, this wasn’t quite true. Scott Sinister was less than delighted when Pongwiffy’s missive dropped through the letterbox of his luxury trailer. It said:

  deer scott,

  i no you will be pleezed to hear frum me agin. yes, it is i, pongwiffy, yore number wun fan. hav you seen this new spellellovishun lark theyve got now? persnally i reckon it needs livening up. it is mi idea to haf a song contest wich i no evrywun wil enjoi espeshully as you are presentin the priz to the winers who will of cors be we witches. congratulashuns on reseeving this onour. see you in witchway hawl nex saterday nite.

  yore frend and admirer

  pongwiffy

  x x x x x

  ps I dont trust that skellington who is renting yore cassel. shifty eye sockets.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Contest Begins

  The lights dimmed. Filth the Fiend played a drum roll. The audience settled back into their seats as a magnified voice boomed forth from nowhere.

  ‘Ladies and ge
ntlemen, viewers at home, welcome to the Witchway Wood Spellovision Song Contest! Please give a big hand to the head of Spellovision Enterprises and your host for this evening – the genial Genie, Mr Ali Pali!’

  The Witchway Rhythm Boys launched into something jaunty, the lights came back up and the audience cheered wildly as Ali, plump paunch tightly encased in a glittery jacket, came running onstage, waving and smiling. He jogged to a halt by a large board on which were written the names of all the contestants placed alphabetically, like this:

  Contestant

  Song

  Score

  1. Banshees

  ‘Oh Woe!’

  □

  2. Familiars

  ‘Oh, I Do Like to Be a Witch Familiar’

  □

  3. Ghosts

  ‘A Haunting We Will Go’

  □

  4. Ghouls

  ‘Here come the Ghouls’

  □

  5. Gnomes

  ‘Gnome, Sweet Gnome’

  □

  6. Mummies

  ‘All Wrapped Up and No Place to Go’

  □

  7. Trolls

  ‘Trollhouse Rock’

  □

  8. Vampires

  ‘That’s a Very Nice Neck, By Heck!’

  □

  9. Werewolf

  ‘A Change is Gonna Come’

  □

  10. Witches

  ‘Banga Langa Bing Bong Boo!’

  □

  11. Wizards

  ‘The Long and Winding Beard’

  □

  12. Zombies

  ‘Whoops, There Goes Me Arm!’

  □

  Vincent Van Ghoul moved in for a close-up. Ali, smiling a dazzling smile that would have given a piano keyboard a run for its money, waited for the applause to subside, then said, ‘Thank you, one and all. Well, what a wonderful occasion this is. First, a big hand for the Mistress of the Scoreboard – your very own weather girl, the lovely Brenda!’

  To more jolly vamping from the Rhythm Boys, Brenda slouched onstage wearing a lurid pink evening gown. Her green bird’s-nest hairdo looked as though it had been kicked into place by some couldn’t-care-less eagle. Chewing, she took up her station next to the scoreboard.

  ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ beamed Ali Pali. ‘Now then. As this is our first ever Song Contest, I will briefly explain how it works. The acts will appear in alphabetical order. When all the songs have been performed, the voting will take place. The votes will be cast by twelve specially selected juries to ensure no cheating. Each jury has ten points to divide as they please, with the proviso that they are not allowed to vote for their own song. The points will be totalled by Brenda at the end.’

  The audience, bored by all this mathematical talk, was beginning to doze off. But they jerked awake again as Ali raised his voice.

  ‘And now, the big surprise of the evening – an unexpected guest! I know that a lot of you were expecting our popular newsreader Sheridan Haggard to be here this evening. Sadly, he is indisposed.’

  ‘Boo!’ shouted Sheridan’s disappointed fans.

  ‘The Skeletons have withdrawn from the competition in protest,’ continued Ali, ‘but never mind, we don’t care, because we have a real treat in store. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big Witchway welcome for that great star of stage and screen – Scott Sinister!’

  Gasps, startled squeaks, and an outbreak of thunderous cheers broke out as the popular star strolled on from the wings. As always, he wore his black velvet cape and trademark sunglasses. He waved a languid hand, acknowledging the applause. Someone threw a bunch of flowers onstage. Scott picked them up, sniffed them, then presented them to Brenda, who glamorously kicked them into the orchestra pit.

  Backstage, Pongwiffy looked up smugly from the monitor. (This is a special spellovision that shows the events going on out front.)

  ‘You see?’ she said. ‘I knew he’d come. Do anything for me, he will, because I’m his biggest fan.’

  (In truth, Scott hadn’t wanted to come, not one little bit. But he knew better than to turn down a request from Pongwiffy, who can get quite spiteful when things don’t go her way. Scott knows this. He has crossed her before.)

  ‘Scott will be awarding the fabulous prizes to tonight’s winners,’ announced Ali, to more cheers. Scott nodded and smiled and waved and blew kisses.

  ‘All right, that’ll do,’ said Brenda. ‘You can shove off now.’

  Scott was happy to oblige. Live appearances were more exhausting than film work, which consists of a lot of hanging around. By simply walking on, he had already done more work in one evening than in the past six weeks. He hurried back to his dressing room to recover.

  Back onstage, things were beginning to happen.

  ‘And now!’ Ali was shouting. ‘The moment you have all been waiting for – the first song! This is the entry from the Banshees and features the Banshee Girls’ Choir singing “Oh Woe!” ’

  The choir shuffled on, red-eyed and miserable-looking. There were six of them, all wearing trailing white nightgowns and sporting the regulation Banshee hairdo – long, wild and uncontrollably frizzy. Being professional weepers, they all carried large, businesslike handkerchiefs. The tallest – presumably the leader – raised her hanky to her nose and had a jolly good blow. This was evidently the signal to start.

  Oh woe!’ wailed the Banshees. ‘Oh woe!

  Misery, doom and dismay,

  Let’s all sob in our hankies,

  That’s the Banshee way.

  Let’s whine and wail and whinge, girls,

  Let’s all get depressed,

  Let’s howl and shriek for the whole of the week,

  ’Cos that’s what we do best . . .’

  There was quite a bit more of this sort of thing. Banshees are good at depression. The interminable song finally ended in a welter of sobs, breast beating and hair tearing – and that was just the audience! The choir drooped offstage, wringing out their sodden hankies.

  After a moment’s pause, Ali Pali bounced back on.

  ‘So there we have it! Thank you, ladies. A truly tragic start to the contest. And now, the Familiars, with a song entitled “Oh I Do Like to Be a Witch Familiar”.’

  Hugo, wearing a tiny bow tie and clutching a miniature conductor’s baton, hurried onstage. He was followed by the rest of the Familiars in varying degrees of stage fright. Snoop, Rory and Vernon looked boldly confident. IdentiKit and CopiCat looked smug. Speks looked unsettled, as though he would much rather be elsewhere, bringing up a pellet. Barry and Slithering Steve were both dying of shyness. Dudley brought up the rear, looking sullen. Overhead, Gaga’s bats flapped about as they always did. Nobody knew what they were feeling.

  Bonidle’s Sloth had fallen asleep in the dressing room.

  Hugo took up his position centre stage and waited until everyone had formed a relatively tidy group. There was a bit of nervous throat clearing. Rory blew the fringe out of his eyes. Then Hugo raised his baton . . . and the song began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rescued

  Sheridan Haggard sat slumped with his skull in his hands as the Thing continued to read extracts from Hugo’s book by the dim light of the last, guttering candle. The funny thing was, it was a very small book and yet it never seemed to end.

  ‘You can lead a Hamster to its wheel but you can’t make it run,’ the Thing informed him. The only response was a low moan.

  ‘What would we do in a world without Cats, apart from be happy?’ continued the Thing. ‘Even a Hamster can be big in the pictures. What do you get if you cross a Cat with a skunk? Dirty looks from the skunk.’

  ‘Stop!’ groaned Sheridan, rocking to and fro.

  ‘What’s blue and furry? A cat holding its breath. Musical Hamsters fiddle with their whiskers. Cats have feelings too – but, hey, who cares? What is the best way to keep Hamsters? Don’t return them. A wise Hamster . . .’

  ‘No more!’ screamed Sh
eridan, leaping to his feet. ‘I can’t take any more of this rodent rubbish! Shut up, shut up, shut up!’

  ‘OK,’ said the Thing, sounding a bit hurt. ‘Just trying to keep you amused, boss.’

  ‘Well, don’t. It’s driving me out of my mind. Oh, what are we to do? We must have been in here for hours. Hours and hours. What time do you think it is? I’ve missed the midnight news, haven’t I? Do you think they’ll have sent the search party yet? That candle’s about to go out, isn’t it? Then we’ll be in the dark! I don’t like it in the dark! The walls will close in and we won’t see them coming! Mummeeeeeee . . .’

  Outside, a short way down the slope, a passing farmer on a cart clucked to his donkey, and it obediently ground to a halt. The farmer’s name was Burl Bacon. The donkey was called Gervaise. Neither of them possessed a spellovision, which is why they were probably the only living creatures in the world who were neither performing in the Song Contest, watching it live nor glued to the spello.

  Burl and Gervaise were currently on their way home from market, which had been cancelled owing to disinterest, although nobody had told them. Their cart was piled high with unsold baskets of eggs. It was now getting dark and they were taking the short cut home through Goblin territory.

  The reason Burl stopped was because he heard something – something that sounded suspiciously like a hollow scream, coming from a cave set into the hill, just up the slope a bit.

  ‘Hear that, Gervaise?’ said Burl slowly, chewing on a straw reflectively. ‘That there hollow screamin’, comin’ from behind that there boulder?’

  Gervaise said nothing, because he was a donkey.

  ‘Heeeeeeellllllp!’ came the faint cry. ‘Let me ouuuut!’

  ‘Reckon someone’s trapped in that there cave, Gervaise,’ reflected Burl, nodding wisely. ‘That’s what Oi reckons, at any rate.’

  ‘Arrrrgh! The walls! Heeeeeeeellllllp!’

  ‘Ar,’ went on Burl, agreeing with himself. ‘That’s what ’appened, shouldn’t wonder. Shouldn’t wonder if someone ’adden gone an’ got theirself trapped. Now then. ’Ere’s a dilemma. Shall us pay no mind an’ go on back ’ome? Or shall us amble over an’ take a little look?’