There was only one word for it.

Ridiculous.

There she was, a witch by all accounts already, and now with only the stars and the crescent moon as witnesses to her black swathed form, she held a dusty, cracked old broomstick.

And tonight, she was going to try flying on it.

It went against everything the Witch knew, every ounce of logic she had ever possessed. But the Witch had seen the girl Nor do it with her own eyes only a few nights ago. Surely, if the girl could manage to fly a broomstick in the broad daylight, the Witch could manage under the cover of night. After all, the old broom was part of the Witch's destiny, wasn't it? Surely she was meant to use its power, not some hair-brained little girl. At least, that's what the mad crone Yackle had told her… the insane old hag…

No. Now was not the time for self doubts. That time had passed when the Witch had left the warm stones of Kiamo Ko for the brisk night air of the Vinkus. The Witch was now glad for her staunch and stuffy attire, which often seemed suffocating in the castle. Wrapping a heavy shawl around her neck and tying it in place above her dress and cloak, the Witch began to study the broom.

It was completely and utterly ordinary, right down to the overlong and uneven bristles that had lost all of their once useful stiffness and rather dragged along hanging like limp hair from the handle. And it was dusty, although the Witch supposed that was more her own fault than anything else. She had let it sit in the corner for so long, not Yackle, the girl, or anyone else. She had let it wither from disuse (though where was she to use a boom in a spotless Mauntery or the towers of a castle which already inhabited several useless women with numbers for names and a stock full of better brooms much more suited to cleaning?) The Witch gathered her thoughts. It wasn't going to get any darker and there was no one left to watch her now. Stalling would do nothing. This would take all the focus the Witch could muster (without bringing herself to laughter or tears from the insanity of it all.)

But how to do it?

Sure, the Witch had seen the girl up in the air, but had she jumped out of a window? Had she kicked off the ground? Was the power in the broom itself, or in the rider's connection with it?

"Oh sweet Oz, tell me I don't have to have a conversation with the twigs." The Witch muttered. She had seen Glinda speaking passionately to more than one inanimate object at Shiz and had often reminded the sorcery student that the object in question had no way of hearing the pleadings, for which she always received a sharp gasp of surprise and a swift glare of annoyance.

Testily, the Witch grasped the broom firmly in both hands and held it out awkwardly in front of her chest at arms length. She stood there a moment, contemplating her stance and wondering what to do next. Deciding it was best to start small, and therefore preempt any disappointment or frustration before she made a scene, the Witch plucked one hand off the broom, waiting for a tilt, a jostle, a tug of gravity, anything. She chided herself when nothing happened. She was, after all, still holding onto it, and it was (supposedly) a flying broom (sweet Oz did that sound odd!) Staring hard at the broom, as though demanding it not make a fool of the Witch to the surrounding night air, she lifted off the other hand, slowly, finger by emerald finger.

Nothing happened, and the Witch barely suppressed a shriek of joy. The broom had stayed exactly where she had held it, against all odds and laws of nature. Well, there went her entire study in the life sciences.

Or did it? Was it possible that this broom had a life force of its own? A spirit or will as implanted by the spell on it? Or perhaps some sorceress had long ago changed an animal (perhaps even an Animal) to this form for reasons of her own. It certainly would explain things. Perhaps she should ask Glinda if such things were possible. If speaking to Glinda again were possible.

The Witch shook her head to clear these thoughts. She would have to deal with her personal struggles of that nature later. For now, she gripped to broom again with both hands and prepared to mount it.

But again, how?

The obvious answer was side saddle, as one would ride a horse, or a Munchkinlander's pony. Oh, but how to balance on the tiny beam of wood? It was not made for that sort of riding at all. Besides, it was all very well to fall from a horse while riding in that fashion; one's appearance and pride might be hurt, but a four foot fall would not physically harm a person. A fall from an airborne broomstick speeding across the tops of the Great Kells might do a bit more damage. The Witch considered straddling the broom as Nor had done, but that would be quite uncomfortable in the skirt she currently dawned (which fell to her booted ankles, as most of her skirts did, and was hardly made out of the most comfortable of fabrics.) Not to mention it would be rather unsightly to anyone below. Nor, as a small child, could get away with such things. The Witch, as an ungainly woman, could not.

The Witch looked around. There would be no one below her tonight. The area around was as silent as the Animals of Emerald City. No one would see her should she make a fool of herself (not unless she made a good deal of noise about it, in which case she was sure to have a full audience from Kiamo Ko, but that was unavoidable.)

Gingerly, the Witch lowered the broom (and was mildly surprised that it put up no resistance) and straddled it uneasily. Yes, it was quite uncomfortable, with her skirt riding up to reveal pale jade knees and bony legs only half covered by her worn out boots. The broom was too thin between her legs to be anywhere near secure, and she felt sure that the sliver of wood would bruise her and leave her sore in the morning with a limp to her walk. Perhaps she could find a cushion for it later, or a better skirt that was wide enough to be tucked underneath and therefore increase the grace of her ride. She tried to stuff her cloak in the delicate spot, but found the skirt blocked most methods of that sort that didn't involve revealing much more of her legs than was proper. Also, the cloak had a tendency to slip out with any shift in balance, and would let her skirt fall out behind, thus revealing everything from her upper thighs to her lower waist to any grounded onlooker. Well, at least that image did not support the title "witch." She would look for a cushion later.

For now, the Witch gently titled the broom (her broom, now, she supposed) skyward and tested the firmness of the ground with the heel of her boot. It was hard. Extremely hard. She would have to fly low tonight so that if she fell, it would not be to her death. With the third tap of her heel to the ground, her broom suddenly shot up into the still night sky. The Witch, who had not been paying great attention to her broom in the moment before this, lost her grip on it and fell gracelessly to the hard earth she had been inspecting rump first. Her rear searing with pain and her skirt ruffled around her thighs, the Witch barely managed to stifle a shriek at the broom (not her broom, then, as it did seem to have a will of its own.) The Witch righted herself and, without really knowing why, pointed earnestly to the ground beside her, as though this would somehow bring the broom back to her. As the Witch watched, with mild shock, the broom did come back, slowly and gracefully, as though the previous moment had never occurred. In disbelief, the Witch mounted the broom as before, not minding her skirt so much as the broom this time, and gently kicked off from the ground.

The broom bucked a bit from her weight, but soon straightened out, and proceeded to glide forward at a steady pace. The Witch rocked left then right, forward then back, struggling to maintain her balance. She found that crossing her ankles and holding the back of her legs against the broom helped immensely. Reveling in her success, the Witch laughed. She let out a loud cackle that filled the still night air with the chills of a child's dream. She tilted her head back and let loose the emotion she had kept pent up within her walls for months, maybe years now. She leaned back, surrendering animal-like to the thrill of the night air beneath her, and all at once the broom shot up again.

Her cackle turned to a most un-witchlike screech of fear as she fought to steady the broom (definitely not 'her broom') and she wrapped her arms tightly around the handle, pleading with the broom to slow down and lower itself back to the earth. Mockingly, it did. It slowed and leveled, bucking a bit as the Witch righted herself atop it. When the Witch tilted the handle, ever so slightly to the ground, it followed her lead and took her smoothly to the earth. On the way down, the Witch toyed a bit with the broom. Sitting with her ankles crossed above the broom handle and her skirt tucked under was both more comfortable and safer (in several respects), leaning into a flight would speed it up, and leaning against the wind would slow it down. Any emotion was immediately processed and reacted to. Perhaps the broom had been but a skittish pony before it was hexed. Perhaps the spell caster was a bit of a nervous wreck herself.

When the broom was low enough for the Witch's boots to reach the dirt, the Witch allowed herself to fall gracelessly from it and hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling onto her back. The broom hovered above her, as though laughing at her attempts. The witch swatted at it. It moved out of the way. The Witch glared at it, and it came back down, all the way, in fact, to rest beside her on the ground. Sighing, the Witch lost the last of her inhibitions for the night.

"All right. I'll try side saddle tomorrow night, you. Perhaps after that I'll just jump out the window and see if you catch me."

Sitting up and grabbing the broom from beside her, the Witch brushed the dirt off her clothes, untied the shawl from her neck and headed back to the kitchens of Kiamo Ko. Perhaps she was mad, but at least she would learn to fly.