by Kaye Umansky
‘Hugo,’ said Pongwiffy, ‘I have taken your point and learnt my lesson. From now on, things are going to be different. Let’s get to that Meeting. And while we’re walking, you can tell me all about that thing you were on about. The Rodent Oh Something or other. Exactly what happens . . . ?’
CHAPTER FIVE
Pongwiffy’s Idea
I’m still waiting,’ said Sourmuddle, drumming her fingers. ‘Waiting for News. Come on, I’m getting irritable now. No new recipes? Anyone zapped any Goblins? Spied on any Wizards?’ She broke off as Sharkadder came hurrying into the Hall with Dudley at her heels. ‘Ah, there you are, Sharkadder. Sixple black marks for being late.’
‘There’s no such word as sixple,’ pointed out Greymatter.
‘There is if I say there is,’ snapped Sourmuddle. ‘Sixple, sevenple, twenty-twople, whatever I say.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ protested Sharkadder. ‘I had problems getting ready.’
‘That’s an interesting bee-keeping look, Sharkadder,’ remarked Sludgegooey, referring to the sunglasses and the veil. Everyone sniggered.
‘Yes, well, I have a slight rash,’ mumbled Sharkadder.
‘That’s no excuse,’ said Sludgegooey. ‘I’ve got a knee that clicks. I got here before you, though.’
‘So did I, even with . . . arrrrgh! Toothache.’ (That was Bendyshanks.)
‘What about my back, then?’ (Ratsnappy.)
‘I don’t think any of you realise quite how long a poem takes, particularly when one isn’t in the mood . . .’
Everyone began shouting, apart from Gaga, who was experimenting to see what happens if you blow bubbles when standing on your head. (Nothing pleasant.)
‘Here I am. Sorry I’m late.’
A voice came suddenly from the doorway. Everyone looked around.
‘Oh,’ said Sourmuddle sourly. ‘It’s you, Pongwiffy. A hundredple black marks for being last. Sit down, we’re doing News.’
‘I will,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I will sit down, but not until I’ve made a very special announcement.’
‘Is it News?’
‘More important than News. I want you to take a good look at me.’ She struck a pose. ‘What do you see?’
The Witches took a good look at Pongwiffy. Some put on their spectacles. There was a little silence.
‘You,’ said Bendyshanks eventually.
‘But a bit worse than usual,’ added Sludgegooey. ‘Wheezing a bit. Even dirtier, if that’s possible. And smelling to high heaven, that goes without saying.’
Everyone nodded. That about summed it up.
‘Ah,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘But what you see before you is the Old Pongwiffy. The New Pongwiffy is about to come. Prepare for a huge change.’
There was a general sigh of disappointment.
‘That’s it?’ demanded Sourmuddle. ‘That’s the announcement? That you’re changing yourself? What’s so special about that?’
It was pitifully easy to turn yourself into something different. All the Witches could do it, with a wave of the Wand and a muttered incantation. They could become a mermaid, a kangaroo, a steamroller, anything. Simple transformation. It wasn’t the sort of thing that deserved a special announcement.
‘Ah, but I’m not using Magic,’ explained Pongwiffy. ‘I’m talking about a real change. I’m going to do it properly. No short cuts. I took a long look at myself before I came here tonight, and I didn’t like what I saw. And I can’t tell you how poorly I was on the way. Hugo knows, so does Sharky.’
‘She was,’ agreed Sharkadder loyally. ‘Poor Pong.’
‘So,’ announced Pongwiffy, ‘I’ve made a decision. I’m going to get fit.’
Now, that was a word you don’t hear often in Witch circles. It caused shock, bewilderment and a certain amount of rude laughter.
‘You can laugh,’ said Pongwiffy sternly. ‘Oh, you can laugh. But you won’t, not when you see the new me.’
‘Will it have washed its cardigan?’ shouted Scrofula. ‘The New You?’
Everyone fell about.
‘I’m not talking about surface dirt,’ said Pongwiffy irritably. ‘I’m not talking about smell. I could, all night long, in fact I’d love to, but I’m not. I was discussing it with Hugo on the way here. He said something. What was it you said, Hugo? About treating the body as a wimple?’
‘Temple,’ said Hugo. ‘Treat body like temple.’
‘I think you’ll find a wimple is a medieval headdress worn by . . .’ began Greymatter, but Pongwiffy waved her quiet.
‘Temple, wimple, pimple, whatever. The main thing is, I’m getting back on track. I’m going to start looking after myself and get healthy. I’m going to stop eating junk and go for things like – like – um –’ Hugo whispered in her ear. ‘Like cauliflower. And grapes.’
‘That’s good, is it?’ asked Bendyshanks doubtfully. ‘Cauliflower and grapes?’
‘Certainly. Fruit, vegetables and lots of exercise.’
‘All right,’ said Sourmuddle suddenly. Snoop was tapping at the watch. ‘That’s enough of you. Let’s move on to News –’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute! I haven’t finished.’
‘Is this a different part of the special announcement?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it more interesting than the first part?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, get a move on, we haven’t got all night.’
Pongwiffy took a deep breath and stared around the hall. ‘The thing is,’ she announced sternly, ‘we’ve all got to change, not just me. I’ve seen the light, you see. It took a lot of suffering behind bushes and an athletic squirrel, but finally I’ve seen it.’
‘What’s she on about?’ sighed Scrofula. ‘Bushes, lights, squirrels, what’s she on about? Can I have one of your sweets, Macabre?’
There was an instant rustle as everyone suddenly remembered their sweets. They were getting bored with Pongwiffy, who was taking far too long to get to the point.
‘You see? That’s just what I’m talking about!’ cried Pongwiffy. ‘All this rubbish we’re eating! The sweets and the greasy stuff. Oh yes, it tastes nice, I know that, but just look at us. Tummyaches, spots, toothache. Running out of breath if we walk as far as the garden gate. Clicking knees, backache.’ She whirled, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Macabre’s gone up three kilt sizes. Greymatter hasn’t written a decent poem for weeks. We’ve stopped making brews. The Brooms never get taken out. Is this what the Witchway Coven has come to? A bunch of decrepit has-beens who spend all their time pigging out on sweets, like a load of half-baked Gretels?’
It was a rousing speech and there was a lot of truth in it. There came a series of guilty crunching noises as the Witches hastily disposed of the sweets in their mouths, then a hail of rustling as they tried to hide the bags. Even Sourmuddle decided against taking another Swampswallow.
‘All we’re doing,’ went on Pongwiffy, ‘all we’re doing is making the Yetis rich and ourselves unhealthy. So it’s time for a change. If I can do it, we all can. But it won’t be easy, so we need something to aim for. So here’s the idea. We hold a Sports Day.’
There was a long, startled silence.
‘What did she say?’ demanded Sourmuddle after a bit. ‘Did she say – Sport?’
‘I did. I’m speaking of a great big sporting contest that’ll be talked about for years to come. Hugo was explaining it to me. Apparently, in Hamsterdam, where he comes from, they hold something called the O’Lumpicks.’
‘Not O’Lumpicks. Olympics,’ said Hugo. ‘Rodent Olympic Games, very popular. ’Amsters, rats, mice, guinea pigs, veasles, ferrets. All join in.’
‘Sounds daft,’ jeered Dudley. ‘Load o’ little furry critters running about. Daft.’ Vernon gave him a glare, and he shut up.
‘And the point of it?’ enquired Sourmuddle.
‘Well, like I said, it’ll give us a goal to aim at, won’t it? While we’re getting fit. And not just us Witches either. We’ll throw it open to
all. Everyone who lives in the Wood. Skeletons, Trolls, Wizards, Vampires, Zombies, Ghouls – everyone except Goblins. We have to draw the line somewhere.’
‘Why would we do that, though?’ mused Ratsnappy. ‘Throw it open to all?’
‘Ah, well, you see, this is where it gets interesting. Apparently, Hugo was explaining to me, as well as making you fit, an O’Lumpicks has got a Noble Purpose.’
‘Olympics,’ said Hugo.
‘The whole idea is to meet and mingle. We get to discover all the things we have in common.’
There was a bewildered silence.
‘What, that we hate each other, you mean?’ asked Ratsnappy eventually.
‘Well . . . yes. But we pretend we don’t.’
‘Let me get this right,’ said Scrofula slowly. ‘Are you saying we have to be – nice?’
‘Right. We have to behave in a sporting manner. No fighting.’
There was a rumble of disbelief. What a very novel idea. This would take some getting used to.
‘I havenay got anything in common wi’ a Wizard, Ah’ll tell ye that,’ said Macabre stoutly, to wide agreement.
(Witches and Wizards have a different style of Magic. Stinky brews versus flashy illusion. They don’t mix. Witches and Wizards try to keep well apart. Although there is some intermingling. Sharkadder’s nephew is a Wizard. His name is Ronald and occasionally she has him round for tea. More about Ronald later.)
‘We’re Witches,’ said Ratsnappy. ‘We don’t want to mingle. Witches are superior, everyone knows that. Everyone else is riff-raff.’
There was another rumble of agreement.
‘So we’ll prove it,’ said Pongwiffy firmly. ‘We’ll get fit and prove it by winning every single event.’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno.’ Pongwiffy waved a vague hand. ‘Everything. There’ll be lots of races and stuff. Running and jumping. I haven’t thought it through yet. I’ll have to form a Sports Committee and iron out the details.’
‘Will there be prizes?’ Macabre wanted to know. ‘Because Ah dinnay intend tay rouse mahself unless there’s a prize at the end.’
‘Certainly there’ll be prizes,’ promised Pongwiffy rashly. ‘There’ll be gold medals. And silver and bronze for the runners-up. But we Witches’ll be going for gold. We’ll train and train until we’re the fittest Coven in the world. Undisputed champions of the Witchway Wood O’Lumpick Games.’
‘Olympic,’ said Hugo.
‘Why bother to train?’ interjected Bendyshanks, fingering her sore mouth. ‘We can win everything using Magic. Simple speed spells. Strength pills. I’ve got a recipe for kangaroo potion at home. Three drops and I can clear the house. Not with this toothache, mind.’
‘That’s not sporting, though, is it?’ said Pongwiffy. ‘That’s cheating.’
‘Where does it say Witches can’t cheat?’
There were nods of agreement all round. Witches have a very casual attitude to cheating.
‘Not when it’s sport,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘The whole point is to eat well and get fit. Magic doesn’t come into it. Magic is banned.’
There was a shocked gasp at this.
‘Ah’ve nivver heard such a thing!’ exploded Macabre.
‘There’s got to be a level playing field, you see,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘There isn’t a level playing field around here,’ pointed out Ratsnappy. ‘Just trees and thickets and bogs and bumpy little pathways.’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘We’ll use the palace gardens. We’ll pull up the rose bushes and mark out a running track on the lawn. We’ll have to chuck out all the old statues, of course, they’ll be in the way. And maybe chop down a few trees.’
‘The King won’t like it,’ remarked Sourmuddle thoughtfully. ‘Very nice this year, his roses. Credit where credit’s due, he’s got a good garden.’
The King’s name was King Futtout, and he did indeed have a lovely garden. He spent a lot of time in it, to stay out of the way of his wife, Queen Beryl, and their daughter, Princess Honeydimple. The palace grounds stretched right to the borders of Witchway Wood and were surrounded by a high wall, to keep out undesirables.
‘All in a noble cause,’ said Pongwiffy airily. ‘He’ll agree, I’ll see to that. If he doesn’t, we’ll do it anyway. Come on, Sourmuddle. What do you think?’
‘I must say I’m struggling with the idea,’ said Sourmuddle. ‘It’s all a bit newfangled for me.’
‘You don’t want to get fit, then?’
‘What’s the word I’m looking for?’ Sourmuddle thought briefly. ‘No.’
‘Well, I must say, I’m shocked. You wouldn’t like to run everywhere? So you could be even more punctual?’
‘I’m over two hundred years old. Why run? Besides, I’m Grandwitch. It’s not dignified, is it, Snoop? We don’t run, do we?’
‘Certainly not. The very idea,’ snapped Snoop, breathing out a cross little puff of smoke.
‘So you’re saying we can’t have an O’Lumpicks? You can’t say we can’t, you can’t!’ Pongwiffy sank to her knees and wrung her hands. ‘Don’t say we can’t. Oh please, oh please! I’m really keen!’
‘I haven’t decided. I’m not sure about the whole mingling thing. Or the playing fair. Or the sport, come to that. But I confess that getting Futtout annoyed has a certain charm.’ Sourmuddle gave a dark little chuckle. ‘It’s been a while since we rattled his cage.’
‘It’d be very good publicity too. For the Coven, I mean.’ Pongwiffy was being crafty here. Sourmuddle was never averse to good publicity. ‘I mean, I know we’re good at being Witches, everyone knows that. But this’d be something different, wouldn’t it? Something that’d benefit the whole community. And we’d be the hosts, so we’d run it our way. We’d make ourselves popular and get fit and win all the gold medals at the same time. We can’t lose.’
‘Would I get my name in the paper, do you think?’ asked Sourmuddle.
‘Sure to!’ promised Pongwiffy. ‘You can go on spellovision too, and talk about it on all the chat shows. Just imagine it! Marching around with our flag at the Grand Opening Parade. A spectacular display of Witch pride. Traditional costumes. The band playing. Everyone cheering.’
‘Opening Parade?’ cut in Scrofula. Everyone perked up. It’s a dull person indeed who doesn’t like the idea of a parade.
‘Oh yes, there has to be one of those, doesn’t there, Hugo?’
‘Zere does,’ agreed Hugo. ‘Parade first, zen Games, zen ze medals. Zat how it go.’
‘All the teams march in under their own flag,’ explained Pongwiffy. ‘But because we’re running things, we go first. So we get the biggest cheer.’
Barry the Vulture asked the question that all the Familiars were dying to ask. He wasn’t feeling quite so unwell now. All the Familiars were sitting up, looking interested. Steve had wriggled out from beneath Bendyshanks’ cardigan. Rory had come in from outside, and Filth had stopped air drumming. Dudley looked a bit sulky, though. Hugo was getting far too much attention in his opinion.
‘Permission to speak?’ asked Barry the Vulture. ‘On behalf of the Familiars?’
‘Go on, then, but make it quick,’ said Sourmuddle. Familiars weren’t encouraged to speak at Coven Meetings.
‘Can we be a team? Instead of just running around making tea?’
There came an explosion of laughter from the Witches.
‘Ah dinnay think so,’ cried Macabre. ‘The very idea!’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ chortled Greymatter. ‘Familiars competing against Witches! Oh, my splitting sides!’
Pongwiffy caught Hugo’s eye.
‘Yes, they can,’ she shouted. ‘We’ve got to do this right. The Games are open to all. Even Familiars.’
The laughter cut off. There was a shocked silence. Hugo whispered in her ear.
‘And they can have their own flag,’ announced Pongwiffy.
‘I bet it’s a daft one,’ said Macabre, who still hadn’t forgiven Rory
for making her walk.
‘Them’s fightin’ words,’ growled Dudley. ‘Us can make a better flag than you landlubbers, I knows that!’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Dudley,’ Sharkadder reprimanded him. ‘Just be glad Pongwiffy’s given you permission. This is a Witch Meeting, you’re not supposed to interrupt. What was that you were saying about traditional costumes, Pong?’
‘That’s what we wear before we change into our shorts. I thought you could design them, Sharky. With your good fashion sense.’
‘We have tay wear shorts?’ howled Macabre.
‘Of course. A healthy diet, a noble mind, team spirit and shorts, that’s what the O’Lumpicks are all about. Hey, you know what else I thought? We could get Scott Sinister to be the commentator and present the medals at the end. And you know what else? We could . . .’
Hugo sat quietly on Pongwiffy’s hat, listening to her rant on. A Sports Day, held in the palace grounds. A Grand Opening Parade. Races. Medals. Competition. Everyone in shorts. Everyone getting together to find out what they had in common. Scott Sinister, the famous film star, to present the prizes. It was an ambitious plan. It could be fun, or it could be a recipe for disaster.
However it worked out, one good thing had come out of it. From now on, Pongwiffy would be eating healthily. He could finally throw away those jars of mouldy skunk stew.
CHAPTER SIX
Plugugly Drools
At exactly the same time as Pongwiffy was outlining her big idea, Plugugly the Goblin was standing stock-still with his nose flattened against the window of Sugary Candy’s. He had been there for some time.
It was the first time that Plugugly had seen the new sweet shop. He rarely ventured down into Witchway Wood for fear of coming face to face with a Witch. Goblins are sworn enemies of Witches. Well, they’re sworn enemies of everybody actually. But they are particularly wary of Witches, who automatically zap them on sight. (Zapping is painful, involving a green flash, a short, sharp scream and flaming trousers.)
However, it was the last Friday of the month, and the Witches would be tied up with their Coven Meeting. Plugugly had been told this by a Thing in a Moonmad T-shirt who he happened to have bumped into earlier, when out wandering the mountains with his empty hunting bag.
