Witches Abroad

world.
    “Where am I?”
    I NSIDE THE MIRROR .
    “Am I dead?”
    T HE ANSWER TO THAT , said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES .
    Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her.
    “When can I get out?”
    W HEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL .
    “Is this a trick question?”
    No.
    Granny looked down at herself.
    “This one,” she said.

    And stories just want happy endings. They don’t give a damn who they’re for .
Dear Jason eksetra ,
Well so much for Genua but I learned about Mrs. Gogol’s zombie medicin and she gave me the told me how to make banananana dakry and gave me a thing call a banjo youll be amazed and all in all is a decent soul I reckon if you keeps her where you can see her. It looks like we got Esme back but I don’t know shes actin funny and quiet not like herself normally so Im keepin an Eye on her just in case Lily puled a farst one in the mirror. But I think shes geting better because when she woke up she arsked Magrat for a look at the wand and then she kind of twidled and twisted them rings on it and turned the po into a bunch of flowers and Magrat said she could never make the wand do that and Esme said no because, she wasted time wishing for thinges instead of working out how to make them happen. What I say is, what a good job Esme never got a wand when she was young, Lily would have bin a Picnic by comparisen. Enclosed is a picture of the cemtry here you can see folks are buried in boxes above ground the soil being so wet because you dont want to be dead and drownded at the same time, they say travelin brordens the mind, I reckon I could pull mine out my ears now and knot it under my chin, all the best, MUM .
    In the swamp Mrs. Gogol the voodoo witch draped the tail coat over its crude stand, stuck the hat on the top of the pole and fastened the cane to one end of the crosspiece with a bit of twine.
    She stood back.
    There was a fluttering of wings. Legba dropped out of the sky and perched on the hat. Then he crowed. Usually he only crowed at nightfall, because he was a bird of power, but for once he was inclined to acknowledge the new day.
    It was said afterward that, every year on Samedi Nuit Mort, when the carnival was at its height and the drums were loudest and the rum was nearly all gone, a man in a tail coat and a top hat and with the energy of a demon would appear out of nowhere and lead the dance.
    After all, even stories have to start somewhere.

    There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again.
    Magrat walked away.
    The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don’t have fairy godmothers and aren’t allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for.

    The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled toward the dawn.
    The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtime were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs. Pleasant had been a real wrench.
    “Well, so much for la douche vita ,” said Nanny philosophically.
    “We never said goodbye to Mrs. Gogol,” said Magrat.
    “I reckon she knows we’re going right enough,” said Nanny. “Very knowin’ woman, Mrs. Gogol.”
    “But can we trust her to keep her word?” said Magrat.
    “Yes,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “She’s very honest, in her way,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Well, there’s that,” Granny conceded. “Also, I said I might come back.”
    Magrat looked across at Granny’s broomstick. A large round box was among the baggage strapped to the bristles.
    “You never tried on that hat she gave you,” she said.
    “I had a look at it,” said Granny coldly. “It don’t fit.”
    “I reckon Mrs. Gogol wouldn’t give anyone a hat that didn’t fit,” said Nanny. “Let’s have a look, eh?”
    Granny sniffed, and undid the lid of the box. Balls of tissue paper tumbled down toward the mists as she lifted the hat out.
    Magrat and Nanny Ogg stared at it.
    They were of course used to the concept of fruit on a hat—Nanny Ogg herself had a black straw hat with wax cherries on for special family feuding occasions. But this one had rather more than just cherries. About the only fruit not on it somewhere was a melon.
    “It’s definitely very… foreign ,” said