by Kaye Umansky
‘What about Seven Stolen Stars from a Wizard’s Cloake of Darknesse?’
‘Nah.’
‘A Bobble off ye Hat of a Gobline?’
‘Nah. Old-fashioned sort o’ ingredients, ain’t they? What sorta spell you doin’, anyway?’
‘Never you mind. What about Beetle Doos?’
‘Nah. No call.’
‘Skunke Stocke Cubes?’
‘Nah.’
‘Frogspawne and Fly Droppings?’
‘Nah.’
‘Well, you’re not much help, I must say,’ grumbled Pongwiffy. ‘I suppose you haven’t got a Vulture’s Feathere either?’
‘Nah. Gorra coupla budgie ones goin’ cheap.’
‘Certainly not. It says Vulture, very definitely. I don’t know, I thought this was supposed to be a Magic shop. What do you sell here?’
She glared around crossly. The shop was full of shelves, and the shelves were full of jars, bottles, cans and boxes. Several sullen-looking used Broomsticks slunk around behind the counter. That was funny. Why weren’t they in their usual place? Pongwiffy suddenly noticed that the Used-Broom rack was stacked with brand new, bright yellow squeezy mops with white plastic handles.
‘Cleanin’ stuff, mostly. Spring-cleanin’ time o’ year, ain’t it? Yer, I got soap ’n’ mop-’eads ’n’ tins o’ beeswax ’n’ air-freshener in cans. Want some? Reeka Reeka Roses, this year’s smell, very popular, on special offer, I’ll do you a squirt . . .’
‘Don’t you dare!’ cried Pongwiffy in alarm. ‘Now look, Malpractiss, I’m not interested in your cleaning stuff. I’m a Witch, remember, and what I’m interested in is Magic. Got that? So what I want is quicksand and a bobble and a whisker and a feather and a fresh lock of hair from the head of a Princess, and if you can’t help me, I’ll just have to . . .’
‘’Ang abaht, ’ang abaht. A lock o’ golden ’air orf a Princess’s ’ead, did yer say?’
‘Yes. Why, have you got one? Strictly speaking, it should have been cut at full moon.’
‘Fink I can ’elp you there, matter o’ fact. Now, where were it again . . . ?’
Slurping into his moustache, Dunfer Malpractiss disappeared into the gloomy shadows at the back of the shop. Moments later, he returned.
‘There yer go!’ he announced triumphantly, slapping down a dusty old shoebox on the counter. ‘One lock o’ golden ’air, guaranteed orf a genuine Princess’s noddle. That’ll be twelve pahnd . . .’
‘Just a moment,’ interrupted Pongwiffy, taking the lid off the box and peering suspiciously within. ‘Is this fresh? The recipe distinctly calls for fresh.’
‘Eh? Oh yer, fresh as anythin’, that,’ said Dunfer, looking shifty.
‘Then how come it’s grey? This is grey golden hair.’
‘Eh? Nah, trick o’ the light . . .’
‘Trick of the light, my foot. Look at the sell-by date on this box, you old fraud. See? BEST USED BEFORE THE STONE AGE.’
‘Yer? No kiddin’? ’Ang on, less ’ave a look . . .’
‘Never mind. I shall take my custom elsewhere in future,’ said Pongwiffy grimly, and strode out with her empty basket.
‘Sure yer don’t want no bin liners?’ came the sad cry.
‘Only to stick your head in,’ retorted Pongwiffy rudely, and set off through the trees. Disappointment had made her all the more determined. All right, so Malpractiss Magic Ltd had been a complete waste of time – but the night was yet young, and there was more than one way to skin a cat.
Thinking of cats reminded her of the first ingredient of Granny Malodour’s spell. A Wilde Cat’s Whisker.
The nearest thing Pongwiffy knew to a wild cat was Dead Eye Dudley, the battered, one-eyed tomcat who belonged to Witch Sharkadder (Pongwiffy’s best friend. Sometimes). In fact, they didn’t come any wilder than Dudley, who had spent one of his nine lives as ship’s cat on a pirate ship. Or so he said.
‘I’ll go and ask Sharkadder right now,’ declared Pongwiffy, setting off through the trees. ‘The direct approach usually works. After all, she is my best friend.’
But first, she decided to pop home and collect a few of those rock cakes she had made last month. Just as a little gift.
She hoped Hugo hadn’t slung them out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ye Wilde Cat’s Whisker
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Sharkadder, opening the door a grudging crack. ‘What do you want, Pong? I’m terribly busy. I’ve just finished washing my floor. I don’t want your dirty great boots all over it.’
Pongwiffy was shocked. ‘Washing the floor? What, now? But it’s the witching hour! Why aren’t you cackling over a brew?’
‘Because I’m spring-cleaning. It was lovely to see you, Pong. Now go away. Come back in the morning.’
‘But I’ve brought you some rock cakes. Fresh baked this afternoon,’ lied Pongwiffy, trying to force her basket of month-old cakes through the crack.
‘Oh, really?’ said Sharkadder, immediately suspicious. ‘What for? What d’you want?’
‘Nothing. Why are you so suspicious all the time? Oh, come on, open up, Sharky. I thought we were best friends. I’ve had an awful evening. I’ve just been to the Magic shop and couldn’t get a thing I wanted. I just want to put my feet up for two minutes and have a glance at your catalogue. Let me in, do.’
‘Oh, very well,’ sighed Sharkadder, suddenly taking her shoulder away from the door. Pongwiffy fell past her into the cottage. ‘But you’re not to stay long. I haven’t started the polishing yet.’
Sharkadder waved a tin of beeswax at Pongwiffy and tapped her foot impatiently. She wore a frilly apron with little green frogs embroidered on the pocket. A matching green scarf was twined around her head. Her precious talons were protected by rubber gloves.
Pongwiffy stared around in disapproval. Everything twinkled and gleamed back at her.
‘Looks nice, doesn’t it?’ said Sharkadder.
‘No,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘What’s that awful smell? Wait, don’t tell me. Reeka Reeka Roses. This year’s smell. On special offer.’
‘How did you know?’ said Sharkadder, impressed.
‘Never mind. By the way, what are you doing for this year’s Spell of the Year Competition?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ll probably enter the formula for my new spot cream. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. Here are your rock cakes,’ continued Pongwiffy, holding out the basket. ‘I tried out a new recipe. Same as the old one, but you add the granite chippings after the egg. That’s why they might be a teensy bit harder than usual.’
‘Oh, lovely. Very kind. I’ll get the hammer,’ said Sharkadder, who knew Pongwiffy’s rock cakes of old.
‘Oh, don’t bother now. I should save them until after I’ve gone,’ said Pongwiffy hastily. ‘Otherwise you might get chippings all over your nice clean floor.’
‘As if you cared about that!’ cried Sharkadder. ‘Although,’ she added curiously, ‘correct me if I’m wrong, a little bat told me you’ve been doing a bit of spring-cleaning yourself!’
‘Not me,’ denied Pongwiffy stoutly. ‘They are. Hugo and the Broom. Not me. I don’t approve. I like my dirt.’
‘Nobody else does, though, do they?’ Sharkadder pointed out. ‘I bet I’m the only visitor you ever get to your hovel.’
‘No, you’re not,’ protested Pongwiffy. ‘Loads of visitors come to Dump Edge.’
‘Don’t shout, Dudley’s asleep. Anyway, they don’t. Nobody ever goes there because it’s so disgustingly dirty and smelly. Even Sludgegooey said she thought you ought to clear up a bit more, and you know what her place is like. Actually, talking about visitors and you being so dirty and smelly and everything reminds me: whatever happens, do not come to tea next Sunday.’
‘Oh. Why not?’ asked Pongwiffy, crestfallen. She enjoyed going to Sunday tea with Sharkadder. There were snail and cucumber sandwiches and sometimes little bat-shaped biscuits with currant eyes, as well as one of Sharkadder’s delicious fungus sponges.<
br />
‘Because my nephew Ronald is coming, that’s why.’
‘Oh,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘I’m not good enough for your relations, then?’
‘Exactly. He’s just passed his Wizard exams, you know. With honours.’
‘I know,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘You told me.’ She had little time for Wizards in general. For Ronald she had no time at all.
‘Did I? He’s done awfully well, you know. He’s a member of the Wizards’ Club now. It’s very exclusive. There’s a secret password and everything. All terribly hush-hush. Well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it? I mean, you don’t want any old riff-raff wandering in. Ronald’s going to have his own chair and everything. They’re going to give him his very own locker to keep his Wand and sandwiches in. And his own peg in the cloakroom. Did I tell you?’
‘Yes,’ said Pongwiffy. ‘Several times.’
‘Oh yes, he’s done quite brilliantly,’ boasted Sharkadder. ‘Top of his year, he tells me. He’s rather hoping to become a Royal Wizard, you know. Straight in at the top.’
‘He would,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘Yes, he’s got an interview with King Futtout over at the palace the day after tomorrow. I’ve bought him a lovely Good Luck card with horseshoes on it. Do you want to sign it?’
‘No,’ said Pongwiffy.
‘I’m sending him some of my new skin cream to try and do something about his spots. Oh yes, he’s got my brains all right. A pity he hasn’t got my complexion. Anyway, he’s coming to tea on Sunday, and I don’t want you here letting me down.’
‘Oh, but . . .’
‘No. That’s final. I want everything to be nice. Ronald’s used to nice things. At the Wizards’ Clubhouse they eat off matching plates, you know. With paper serviettes and everything. He told me. I’m not having you here smelling the place up and putting your boots on the table and making rude remarks. Understand?’
‘I suppose so,’ sulked Pongwiffy.
‘Good. That’s settled, then. Here – you can take the catalogue home to look at if you like. If there’s nothing else, goodbye.’
‘Actually,’ said Pongwiffy, ‘there is something. I wanted to ask you a small favour.’
‘Oh, you did, did you? Now we’re getting somewhere. What?’
‘I was just wondering if you could spare me one of Dudley’s whiskers, actually.’
‘Oh, you were, were you? Why?’
‘Oh, you know, no special reason.’
‘I suppose you need it for some stupid spell. Well, even if he agreed, which he won’t, how do you propose pulling it out without hurting him? He’s got feelings, you know. He’s not a machine. You can’t stick a coin in and wait for a whisker to drop out.’
Pongwiffy hadn’t thought of that. She peered into Dudley’s basket. He was spitting and hissing and flexing his claws in his sleep, heavily involved in one of those fierce, piratical dreams of his.
‘Well, I suppose the easiest thing would be to give him a little tap on the head with a mallet or something. That way he wouldn’t feel a thing.’ Pongwiffy didn’t feel too hopeful as she said it.
‘How dare you,’ said Sharkadder coldly. ‘I’ll tell him you said that when he wakes up. He’ll probably scratch you.’
‘No, he won’t. He’s too scared of Hugo. Oh, come on, Sharky, it’s only a little favour . . .’
‘Yes, that’s all you ever want, little favours! Well, I’m tired of doing you favours. Go and pull out a whisker from that pint-sized Hamster of yours. You think he’s so wonderful, don’t you? Just because he beat up my Dudley once. Well, let me tell you, Dudley had a bad back at the time. He’s still got it, as a matter of fact. If he was in good health he could make Hamsterburger of your Hugo, so there.’
‘Oh no, he couldn’t,’ said Pongwiffy stoutly.
‘Oh yes, he could,’ insisted Sharkadder, hands on hips.
‘No, he couldn’t.’
‘Yes, he could.’
‘Couldn’t.’
‘Could.’
‘Couldn’t.’
‘Could. Wake up, Duddles, darling. Silly old Pongwiffy’s saying you’re a sissy and couldn’t make mincemeat out of Hugo.’
In fact, Duddles darling was really awake, but didn’t want to get involved. He still had the scars from the last time he had tangled with Hugo. That Hamster was tough.
‘I’d help ye haul that barrel, shipmate, but I got this bad back,’ he muttered, pretending he was still dreaming. He didn’t fool Pongwiffy.
‘There, see? He’s a scaredy-cat. He’s afraid of my little Hugo. I told you so.’
‘That does it! Out! Out of my house this minute!’ ordered Sharkadder.
‘I take it I don’t get the whisker, then?’
‘You certainly do not. The cheek of it.’
‘That’s the last time I bake you rock cakes.’
‘Good! This is what I think of your rock cakes.’
Sharkadder threw one on the floor and stamped on it. The heel came off her shoe. The rock cake remained intact.
‘Right!’ said Pongwiffy, hurt. ‘That does it! I’m breaking friends.’
And she picked up her basket and marched out, breaking into a run as rock cakes whizzed past her head.
It seemed that the direct approach had been all wrong.
As she walked up the path to her spotless, unfriendly hovel, the Broom leapt to attention and proceeded to fussily sweep the path behind her. She put her hand on the door, and a bossy squeak commanded her to wipe her feet.
She paused, sniffed, smelt the unmistakable smell of Reeka Reeka Roses and decided to sleep under the stars on that old mattress in the rubbish dump. Spring-cleaning indeed!
CHAPTER FIVE
Ye Quicksande
The next morning, Pongwiffy rose at daybreak. She did some deep, healthy breathing by the compost heap, then, holding a hanky over her nose, crept into her hovel where Hugo and the Broom still slept. Moments later she marched out again with a bucket and a large soup ladle. Determinedly she set off down the path, soon leaving it and plunging deep into the trees, heading towards the quicksand.
Very few people visited the quicksand. It wasn’t that much of an attraction really, consisting of a still, treacherous stretch of stagnant water where only worms, snakes and oozy things lived. Even the trees seemed darker and more sinister in this neck of the Wood.
However, it took more than a vague air of brooding menace to stop Pongwiffy. Bucket in hand, she barged through brambles and clumps of stinging nettles, lips clenched in a thin, determined line. Finally, she burst from the thicket into a small clearing, noticing just in time that the ground was spongy beneath her feet.
Very, very slowly, she edged forward. Her boots sank deep into the bubbling sludge and came up again with sucking slurps. They were two sizes too big and without laces, so Pongwiffy had the greatest difficulty keeping them on.
Balancing with great care on a tiny clump of marsh grass, she stooped, wobbled a bit, readied her bucket, and dipped her ladle in the quicksand.
Now then. Here’s an interesting turn-up. Pongwiffy didn’t know that this quicksand was, in fact, the home of a certain Toad. A Toad who once (and not that long before either) had spent the best part of an unforgettable evening up to his neck in batter, destined to be the main ingredient of Pongwiffy’s toad-in-the-hole supper.
Pongwiffy didn’t remember this. But the Toad did.
There he was, enjoying a quiet snooze on a slimy rock, getting away from the wife and tadpoles for ten precious minutes, when out of the bushes burst the Raving Lunatic who had sprinkled him with chopped parsley, stuck him in a dish of grey goo and donged him with a spoon every time he popped up for air.
The Toad remembered her all right.
The Toad noted with pleasure that the Raving Lunatic had a rather nasty bramble scratch down one arm.
He observed with glee that the Raving Lunatic had recently fallen over and banged her knee and ripped some enormous holes in her cardigan.
He w
as also pleased to see that the Raving Lunatic was edging towards the quicksand, stooping, wobbling, very insecure, definitely a bit nervous.
He wasn’t that interested in the bucket – a rusty, battered old thing – but he was very interested in the ladle!
Slowly she stooped, slowly – slowly – and the Toad waited, nearly dying with pent-up giggles, the sort you get when playing hide-and-seek and the seeker is crashing around right next to you.
THEN . . .
‘GERONIMO!’ shrieked the Toad, kicking off, leaping high in the air, hurtling down and landing perfectly, slap bang in the middle of Pongwiffy’s bony shoulder blades.
‘AHHHHH!’ howled Pongwiffy, arms whirling like windmills as she strove to keep her balance.
The arm-whirling didn’t work, of course. Neither did the frantic grabbing of the nearest thing, which happened to be a blade of marsh grass. It did its best, but Pongwiffy was just that bit too heavy and the marsh grass wasn’t built for it. It bent over and snapped! Pongwiffy pitched forward, shot out of her boots, did a clumsy somersault, and entered the quicksand head first. The bucket fell out of her hand and vanished with a slurping glug.
The ladle, however, was saved from a similar fate by the Toad, who, with a triumphant cry of ‘HOWZAT!’ caught it deftly by the handle as it arced through the air. A spiteful grin on his face, the Toad then waited for Pongwiffy’s head to surface. As soon as it did, the Toad gave a flying leap, landed on it and proceeded to batter it with the ladle.
‘Dong!’ croaked the Toad, bashing away with malice. ‘Dong, dong, dong! There. How do you like it?’
‘Hey! What the – look, get off, will you? Stop doing that, you crazy animal. I’ll sue you for assault and battery, I’ll . . .’
Booble groggle burble . . . (That’s supposed to be a Sinking-in-Quicksand sort of noise. Perhaps you can do better?)
‘Don’t give me batter,’ snarled the Toad, very worked up indeed. ‘I’ll give you batter. Now, get back down there. Dong, dong, DONG!’
It could have been nasty, couldn’t it? We could have lost our poor old Pong then and there. She could have sunk without trace, the victim of a blood-crazed Toad armed with a soup ladle.
