by Kaye Umansky
Please complete the following in your best handwriting. YOU HAVE THREE WEEKS TO GET FIT!
TEAM NAME ........................................................
EVENT CONTESTANT NAME(S)
Three-Legged Race ..................................................
Egg and Spoon Race ................................................
Weightlifting ...........................................................
High Jump ..............................................................
Sack Race ................................................................
Toss the Caber .........................................................
Relay Race ...............................................................
*N.B. Except Goblins. **N.B. Three-legged monsters are not eligible.
CHAPTER ONE
A Typical Evening
It was evening, and a typical scene was taking place in Number One, Dump Edge, Witchway Wood. Supper was over and Witch Pongwiffy was slumped in her armchair, eating toffees and watching Hugo, her Hamster Familiar, wash up.
The only sounds were of clinking plates and a bit of tuneless humming from Hugo and a lot of vigorous, noisy chewing from Pongwiffy.
Suddenly, the chewing stopped.
‘Gugo!’ said Pongwiffy, urgently but indistinctly. ‘Gugo gy geeg!’
Was this some sort of new language?
Hugo turned and looked at her. Pongwiffy was sitting bolt upright, pointing at her mouth with a strange expression. Sort of alarmed but sheepish at the same time.
‘Vot?’
‘Gy geeg! Gy geeg ga gug goo gegger!’
Her teeth were stuck together.
‘Vot, again?’
‘Nng.’
Pongwiffy rolled her eyes and waited for help. Hugo dried his paws on a tiny tea towel.
‘It ze last time I do zis,’ he warned.
He scrabbled in a drawer, took out a fork and a small hammer and advanced briskly on Pongwiffy, who quailed. With a hop and a jump, he was on her shoulder.
‘Turn head,’ he instructed. ‘Open up.’ Pongwiffy turned to face him and nervously bared her teeth. He positioned the fork and brandished the hammer. ‘Ready?’
‘Nng. Nnnnngggggg . . .’ There was a sharp crack. ‘Ah!’ Pongwiffy gave a cry as her newly freed jaws sprang open. ‘Ooh, that’s better. What a relief.’
‘Vot I tell you ’bout eatink toffees?’ scolded Hugo, clambering down.
‘But they’re all I’ve got left. I’ve eaten all the crunchy ones and the soft centres.’
‘Zat whole bag of sweets? But I only got zem zis morning!’
‘So?’
‘Zat so greedy,’ tutted Hugo. ‘After great big supper too.’
Pongwiffy had indeed had a big supper. Four greasy helpings of skunk stew, no less. And now, on top of all that, she was eating sweets. Or would be, if she hadn’t run out.
Hopefully, she fished around in her cardigan pocket and, with a glad little cry, produced something green, fluff-covered and frog-shaped.
‘Ooh, look. A Hoppy Jumper.’ She peered down, picked off the fluff, popped it in her mouth and crunched. ‘Yum. I love these, I do. I could sit here and eat ’em all night.’
‘I thought you goink out,’ said Hugo. ‘You say you goink to visit Sharkadder.’
‘Did I? Well, I’m not. I’ve broken friends.’
‘Oh ya?’ Hugo didn’t sound all that surprised. Witch Sharkadder was Pongwiffy’s best friend. They argued a lot, though, so they frequently weren’t speaking. One day best friends, the next, worst enemies. It was hard to keep up.
‘She wouldn’t answer the door,’ explained Pongwiffy. ‘Last time I called. I know she was in there, though. Crunching sweets in the dark. Didn’t want to share, I reckon. So I’m not speaking. She just doesn’t know it yet.’
‘So go round and tell ’er,’ advised Hugo.
‘How can I tell her if I’m not speaking?’
‘Write note.’
‘Can’t be bothered. Too far to walk.’
‘Fly zen, if you so lazy. Take Broom.’
The Broom, who had been mournfully drooping in a corner, straightened up and looked desperately keen, like a puppy who’s been promised a walk. It hadn’t been flown for ages and it was terribly bored, just hanging around collecting cobwebs. A brisk fly would be just what the tree doctor ordered.
‘Don’t want to,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I want to lie around and eat sweet things. Like cake. Fetch me some cake.’
The Broom went back to mournful drooping. Hope dies quickly in Broom World, especially if you belong to Pongwiffy.
‘No cake,’ said Hugo. ‘All gone. You eated it.’
‘So make another one. Make a sponge cake, it’ll soak up the grease. Basic science.’ She gave a loud, rude belch and rubbed her stomach, which was inflated to the size of a small balloon.
‘Exercise,’ advised Hugo. ‘Zat vot you is needink. You in bad shape.’ He began poking around in the food cupboard which was empty apart from three jars of skunk stew labelled Last Week, Month-Old and Vintage. ‘You not fit. Just lie about eatink rubbish.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Everysink. You should be like ’amsters. Alvays on ze go, ’amsters. ’Specially ven it comink up to ze Rodent Olympic Games.’
‘The what?’
‘Ze Rodent Olympics. Held in my home town, ’amsterdam. Boy, do ve train ’ard. Is big sing.’
‘A big sing? What, like opera?’
‘No, no. Sing!’
‘Oh, thing!’
‘Ya. Is like big Sports Day. High spot of ze year.’
‘Is it now?’ Pongwiffy gave a theatrical yawn.
‘Ya. Ve play games.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Oh, ya. Rats, mice, guinea pigs, ’amsters. All join in.’
‘I didn’t think you got on with mice and guinea pigs. I thought you usually fought, that’s what you said.’
‘Not ven it ze Olympics. On zat day ve have truce. Got to be nice to each uzzer. It all about teamvork.’
‘Teamwork?’ sneered Pongwiffy. She didn’t care for teamwork. Witches aren’t known for their cooperation.
‘Ya. Rats gotta team. Mice gotta team. ’Amsters gotta team. Everyvun compete against each uzzer, see? Ze best team vin.’
‘It’d be quicker to fight, wouldn’t it? Get it over and done with?’
‘Not ven is Sport,’ explained Hugo. ‘Sport different. Sport got rules. Got to be fair. No fightink, no cheatink.’
‘No cheating?’ Pongwiffy sounded shocked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Ya.’
‘You mean – no Magic?’
‘Certainly not.’ Hugo was scandalised.
‘Well, it doesn’t sound like a Witch thing,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Playing fair and being nice. All that effort when you can just wave a Wand.’
‘Ah, but zat not ze point. Ze point is . . .’ Hugo gave up. Pongwiffy was scrabbling through her pockets again and had stopped listening. ‘Ah, never mind. Vere ze sugar?’
‘How should I know? Why? Isn’t there any?’ asked Pongwiffy innocently, and instantly came out in green spots. (This always happens when she tells fibs. It’s very inconvenient.)
‘You eated it, didn’t you?’ said Hugo.
‘I might have had a couple of handfuls, I can’t remember.’
‘Green spots,’ said Hugo, pointing.
‘All right,’ said Pongwiffy sulkily. ‘All right, so I did.’ The green spots faded.
‘You such a fibber,’ said Hugo, shaking his head.
‘Oh, stop lecturing me. I don’t want want to be lectured by a Hamster. Leave me alone, I’ve got tummyache.’
‘You better get better,’ warned Hugo. ‘Is Coven Meeting midnight tonight.’
‘I think I’ll have to cancel. I’ll send you along with a sick note. Oooooh.’
‘Vot, again?’
‘Can’t,’ said Hugo. ‘Run out of cake stuff. No sugar, no eggs, no flour, no nussink.’
‘Well, I’m not sitting here all night with nothing to munch on. You’ll just have to go along to Sugary Candy’s and get me more sweets. I’d go myself if I didn’t feel so poorly. Don’t look like that, it won’t hurt you. Get me a mixed bag, heavy on the Hoppy Jumpers. I’ll have some Bat Splatz, and a couple of Bog Bars. Oh, and some Minty Stingeroos . . .’
CHAPTER TWO
Sugary Candy’s
Sugary Candy’s was the name of the new sweet shop in Witchway Wood. It had only recently opened, but was already attracting a huge amount of custom. It was designed to look like a charming gingerbread cottage, with painted sweets stuck on the walls and a twist of pink candyfloss emerging from the crooked chimney. It had a pointed roof and an old-fashioned door with a quaint shop bell. But instead of poky little windows there was one great big one. The display was truly a sight to behold.
Sweets! Great big jars of them arranged in rows, all different shapes and colours. Green froggy ones, crimson ones shaped like little mouths, black bat-shaped ones that flapped in your mouth and large staring ones like eyeballs that blinked when you bit into them. There were humbugs and gobstoppers and big pink balls of bubblegum. There were huge red lollipops with faces on. There were toffees and sherbet dips and striped sticks of rock and – oh, everything under the sun. It would take far too long to describe all those sweets. You just need to know that temptation-wise, they were off the scale. They had exciting names too, written on the labels. It made them fun to buy.
As well as the giant jars of sweets, there were trays of chocolate. Big brown bars, piled high. Slime Slabs. Mocklit Fudge. Bog Bars.
It would have been good if Sugary Candy’s was owned by somebody called something like Mr Twinkle or Arthur Applecheek – a merry old fellow who loved little children. It wasn’t, though. It was owned by the Yeti Brothers – large, hairy, hard-headed business types who didn’t love anybody.
The Yetis specialised in bad food. It was cheap and it was greasy, cooked carelessly in dirty kitchens and dumped any old how on grubby plates. Their names were Spag Yeti and Conf Yeti, and they owned a great number of greasy spoon cafes, burger bars and pizza houses in far-flung locations, all of which they ran simultaneously although nobody knew how, seeing as there were only two of them. They also did the catering for important events like parties and weddings. (Same bad food, but cut up small and served on shiny platters.) Rumour was that the Yetis cloned themselves, but it was more likely that they just ran very fast. Or took short cuts through dimensions known only to Yetis. Or possibly had a lot of identical hairy cousins with the same names.
Spag and Conf’s decision to open a sweet shop was proving to be a very good one. The residents of Witchway Wood had little in common, but apparently were united in their love of lurid confectionery. Sugary Candy’s gave them exactly what they wanted. It was pricey, mind. But, oooh. It was worth it.
Here is a typical scene. The customer can be a Skeleton, a Witch, a Banshee, a Troll, a Vampire, an anonymous hairy thing, take your pick. This is how it would go.
SPAG YETI:
Yeah? What you wanna?
CUSTOMER:
A large bag of Tooth Rotters, please. Oh, and some of your delicious Molar Manglers, they’re my favourites. And throw in a dozen Gloopy Guzzlers, and fifteen of those big red lollipops and ten Jumbo Lumpos, the ones with the pink sprinkles. And a giant packet of Bat Splatz.
SPAG YETI:
That-a be one month’s salary, please.
CUSTOMER:
(Hands over salary) Thank you so very much, see you tomorrow.
(Customer leaves, poor but happy. Spag rings up the till, rich and even happier.)
Business was good.
This particular night, Spag stood behind the counter, stuffing money into the overflowing till. There was a long queue trailing out of the door. At the front was a Werewolf, followed by two Skeletons, a family of Trolls, a small Thing in a Moonmad T-shirt, a Gnome (named GNorman, currently reading the paper), a sour-faced Tree Demon and a solitary Vampire in a beret, who was licking his lips and eyeing up a jar containing the red sweets shaped like little mouths.
Three Witches stood at the back. Sludgegooey, Ratsnappy and Bendyshanks. They had come for their night’s supply.
‘What are you getting?’ Sludgegooey asked Ratsnappy, who was breathing heavily because she had just walked up a short, gentle slope.
‘Don’t know yet,’ gasped Ratsnappy. ‘Can’t talk. Still puffed out from that climb.’
‘I usually have Minty Stingeroos, but I’ll think I’ll try those stripy yellow ones for a change.’
‘What – Beezi Kneezies?’ chipped in Bendyshanks, who had a swollen cheek. ‘Take my advice, don’t. I had those the other night. Hard as nails. Broke a tooth. I’m in agony, actually. It was a real struggle to get here. But I couldn’t miss my sweet run. I’m getting Bat Splatz, they’re softer on the gums.’
‘I haven’t tried those yet,’ admitted Sludgegooey.
‘Oh, you must!’ cried Bendyshanks. ‘They flap about your mouth, then explode and all this lovely green melty gooey stuff comes out.’
‘Melty gooey stuff’s not good for teeth, is it?’ said Sludgegooey, not in a disapproving way but because she was interested.
‘Takes the mind off the pain,’ explained Bendyshanks.
‘Oh, right. I was thinking of Hoppy Jumpers.’ Thoughtfully, Sludgegooey eyed the rows of jars.
‘Oh, don’t have them,’ advised Bendyshanks, the expert. ‘They play havoc with the tummy, especially after a big greasy meal. And don’t have those blinking eyeballs, they’re horrible.’
‘I hope this won’t take long,’ groaned Ratsnappy. ‘My back’s killing me from the walk up that hill. I had to lie down halfway up. Vernon had to come and give me extra special perspiration.’
‘It’s artificial respiration, isn’t it?’ asked Sludgegooey.
‘All I know is I was sweating a lot.’
‘I know what you mean. It’s hard on the knees, walking. My knee keeps clicking. Listen.’ Sludgegooey bent a knee, which dutifully clicked. ‘See? I’d be tempted to bring along a chair, except I’d have to carry it.’
‘You should get Filth to carry it,’ said Ratsnappy.
‘I would, but he’s out rehearsing.’
I should explain here that Sludgegooey’s Familiar is a Fiend called Filth. He is small and hairy and plays drums with the local band called the Witchway Rhythm Boys. He says ‘yeah, man’ a lot, even when he means ‘not likely’. He is always neglecting his duties and sloping off to rehearsal. Sludgegooey puts up with this because she thinks he is creative, although she does find his habit of air drumming at the table annoying.
‘You should make him,’ said Bendyshanks. ‘That’s what you employ him for. He gets away with too much, your Filth. I’d make Steve.’
‘Ah, but Steve can’t carry a chair, though, can he?’ Sludgegooey pointed out. ‘It’s easy to say when he can’t even do it.’
This is true. Slithering Steve, Bendyshanks’ Familiar, is a small grass snake. He has his talents, but they don’t include chair carrying.
‘He would if he could,’ said Bendyshanks a bit huffily. ‘He’s willing. It’s hard to carry a chair without arms.’
‘Some chairs have got arms,’ remarked Ratsnappy, who was thinking about sweets and losing track a bit.
‘We’re talking about Steve’s limitations,’ said Sludgegooey.
‘And Filth’s,’ added Bendyshanks firmly.
‘Oh, right. Yes, well, all the Familiars have those, don’t they? I have to admit my Vernon can be very sneaky. You have to check your change. And his cooking’s terrible. I’m living on takeaways.’
‘Me too,’ said Sludgegooey. ‘Can’t be bothered to cook up a brew. Run out of herbs and whatnot. Can’t go out picking, not with my clicking
knee. How much longer is that idiot going to be?’
At the front of the queue, the Werewolf was being indecisive about his purchases. He was already weighed down with loads of paper bags full of sweets and was now wondering if he could manage a family-sized bar of fudge as well.
‘Is that real chocolate?’ asked the Werewolf, pointing.
‘Eez-a chocolate-flavour chocolate,’ said Spag. ‘Called mocklate.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘How should I know? I sell it, not-a make it.’
‘Well, yes, but I was just wondering . . .’
‘Look,’ said Spag. ‘You wannit? Or you donna wannit?’
‘I want it,’ explained the Werewolf. ‘I just don’t know if I can carry it. Do you deliver?’
‘Oi!’ shouted Sludgegooey. ‘Get a move on, fur face, there’s folks waiting.’
‘There are,’ said a dry voice from behind, adding firmly, ‘but I’m not one of them. Out of the way, coming through.’
CHAPTER THREE
Sourmuddle Jumps the Queue
The queue shuffled hastily to one side. This was Grandwitch Sourmuddle, Mistress of the Witchway Wood Coven, over two hundred years old, sometimes hard of hearing, often short of temper and definitely not to be crossed.
She came waddling up the line with Snoop in tow. Snoop was a small, red, officious Demon, generally considered by the other Familiars to be a bit above himself. He scampered along at her heels, bossily waving a tiny trident.
‘Why is that old woman pushing in?’ demanded a small Troll of his parents, who looked embarrassed and told him to shush.
Sourmuddle reached the counter and elbowed the Werewolf to one side.
‘Marshmallows,’ she demanded. ‘The ones I always have.’
‘Alla-outa, sorry. Been a run,’ explained Spag, adding, ‘but I gotta Swampswallows. Same as Marshmallows, but different colour. Orange-a.’
‘What? Speak up.’
‘ORANGE-A. YOU LIKE-A.’
‘Excuse me?’ piped up the Werewolf. ‘I was here first, you know.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ said Sourmuddle, who could hear fine when she wanted. ‘Single-celled organisms were here first. They were brainier than you, though. They’d know better than to argue with me.’ Casually, she fingered the Wand hanging from a string around her neck.
