polite about it. Somehow, that made it worse.
âIt doesnât fly unless you run really fast,â she explained, aware even as she spoke how stupid this sounded, especially if you were listening in a foreign language. âI think itâs called hump starting.â
She took a deep breath, scowled in concentration, and ran forward again.
This time it started. It jolted in her hands. The bristles rustled. She managed to slip it into neutral before it could drag her along the ground. One thing about Granny Weatherwaxâs broomstick â it was one of the very old-fashioned ones, built in the days when broomsticks were built to last and not fall apart with woodworm after ten years â was that while it might take some starting, when it went it didnât hang about.
Magrat had once considered explaining the symbolism of the witchesâ broomstick to Granny Weatherwax, and decided not to. It would have been worse than the row about the significance of the maypole.
Departure took some time. The villagers insisted on giving them little gifts of food. Nanny Ogg made a speech which no-one understood but which was generally cheered. Greebo, hiccuping occasionally, oozed into his accustomed place among the bristles of Nannyâs broomstick.
As they rose above the forest a thin plume of smoke also rose from the castle. And then there were flames.
âI see people dancing in front of it,â said Magrat.
âAlways a dangerous business, rentinâ property,â said Granny Weatherwax. âI expect he was a bit lax when it came to redecoratinâ and repairinâ the roof and suchlike. People take against that kind of thing. My landlord hasnât done a handâs turn on my cottage the whole time Iâve been there,â she added. âItâs shameful. And me an old woman, too.â
âI thought you owned your place,â said Magrat, as the broomsticks set off over the forest.
âShe just ainât paid no rent for sixty years,â said Nanny Ogg.
âIs that my fault?â said Granny Weatherwax. âItâs not my fault. Iâd be quite willinâ to pay.â She smiled a slow, self-confident smile. âAll he has to do is ask ,â she added.
This is the Discworld, seen from above, its cloud formations circling in long curved patterns.
Three dots emerged from the cloud layer.
âI can see why travellinâ doesnât catch on. I call this boring. Nothing but forest for hours and hours.â
âYes, but flying gets you to places quickly, Granny.â
âHow longâve we been flying, anyway?â
âAbout ten minutes since you last asked, Esme.â
âYou see? Boring .â
âItâs sitting on the sticks I donât like. I reckon there ought to be a special broomstick for going long distances, right? One you could stretch out on and have a snooze.â
They all considered this.
âAnd have your meals on,â added Nanny. âProper meals, I mean. With gravy. Not just sandwiches and stuff.â An experiment in aerial cookery on a small oil burner had been hastily curtailed after it threatened to set fire to Nannyâs broomstick.
âI suppose you could do it if you had a really big broomstick,â said Magrat. âAbout the size of a tree, perhaps. Then one of us could do the steering and another one could do the cooking.â
âItâd never happen,â said Nanny Ogg. âThe reason being, the dwarfs would make you pay a fortune for a stick that big.â
âYes, but what you could do,â said Magrat, warming to her subject, âis get people to pay you to give them rides. There must be lots of people fed up with highwaymen and . . . and being seasick and that sort of thing.â
âHow about it, Esme?â said Nanny Ogg. âIâll do the steering and Magratâll do the cooking.â
âWhat shall I do, then?â said Granny
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