The Folklore of Discworld Read online

  The brigge was as heigh as a tower,

  And as scharpe as a rasour,

  And naru it was also;

  And the water that ther ran under

  Brennd of lightning and of thunder,

  That thought him mikle wo.

  The closest match for Granny’s journey is the strange medieval funeral chant known as ‘The Lyke-Wake Dirge’, which Yorkshire women sang, as late as the sixteenth century, as they kept watch over a corpse. The tale it tells was already old; it had begun (in so far as such things can be said ever to begin) four hundred years before, as a vision which came to a German monk called Gottskalk in December 1189, as he lay sick of a fever. He saw the souls of the dead gathering on the edge of a great wild heath covered with thorns and furze. There was a tree nearby, its branches loaded with pairs of shoes, but the newly dead soul must cross the thorny ground barefoot – unless, while alive, he or she had given socks and shoes as alms to the poor. And so the Yorkshire women sang:

  If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon,

  Every night and all,

  Sit thee down and put them on,

  And Christ receive thy soul.

  If hosen and shoon thou never gave none,

  Every night and all,

  The whinnies shall prick thee to the bare bone,

  And Christ receive thy soul.

  Having passed over Whinny Moor, the soul comes to The Bridge of Dread, which is ‘no broader than a thread’, and finally to Purgatory Fire. Those who once gave food and drink to the needy will not shrink from its flames; those who never did will be burned to the bare bone. The song stops at this point, but since in Christian belief Purgatory is never a final state, simply the last stage on a sinner’s journey to God in Heaven, we can assume a happy ending.

  As for Granny Weatherwax, the message she sends the world is, I ATE’NT DEAD YET.

  BELIEFS OF LANCRE

  The people of Lancre are, on the whole, remarkably free from irrational beliefs. Things which in another universe would be considered superstitions are plain commonsensical everyday facts in Lancre. People there don’t believe that a horseshoe over the door keeps you safe from elves, they know it, and if you ask them why it works they can explain just why (the magnetic effect of iron disrupts the sixth sense so vital to an elf’s well-being). Beekeepers are careful to tell their bees everything important that concerns the family and household – births, marriages, deaths, a new set of curtains, and suchlike. But that’s not superstition, just the practical observation that if you don’t tell them, they will fly indoors to find out for themselves.

  Or take the matter of controlling horses. On the Earth, there were farriers and farm workers who had learned the secret magic of the ‘Horseman’s Word’. They could make any horse follow them, or utterly refuse to move on, by whispering it into its ear. To become a Horse Whisperer or Toadman wasn’t easy. In Scotland, you had to be initiated into a secret society and swear blood-curdling oaths. In East Anglia, you had to kill a toad, leave it on an ant-hill for a month till the bones were picked clean, then on the next night of the full moon put the bones in a stream (ignoring the eldritch sounds which would break out just behind you). One single bone would float upstream. Take it home, rub it with oils, grind it to powder. That powder holds the power.

  In Lancre, the blacksmith and farrier Jason Ogg has no need of all that palaver, but he does have a more immediately practical approach. He can calm the wildest stallion by whispering a definitely non-magical Word in its ear – he simply points out what all those pliers and hammers could be used for, ‘if you don’t stand still right now, you bugger’.

  Royal Phantoms

  Curiously, the royal family of Lancre have one strong superstition, though it only affects them once they are dead. They believe that they are bound to the stones of their ancient castle (especially if they happen to have been murdered on the premises), and must haunt it indefinitely. When this happened to King Verence I, he found he disliked most of his fellow-ghosts:

  Champot was all right, if a bit tiresome. But Verence had backed away at the first sight of the Twins, toddling hand in hand along the midnight corridors, their tiny ghosts a memorial to a deed darker even than the usual run of regicidal unpleasantness.

  And then there was the Troglodyte Wanderer, a rather faded monkeyman in a furry loincloth who apparently happened to haunt the castle merely because it had been built on his burial mound. For no obvious reason a chariot with a screaming woman in it occasionally rumbled through the laundry room. [Wyrd Sisters]

  Being not entirely stupid, King Verence found a way of escape. He persuaded Nanny Ogg to help him, pleading, ‘Pray carry a stone out of the palace so’s I can haunt it, good mother, it’s so bloody boring in here.’ So he left the castle, clinging to a bit of rock that Nanny broke off the battlements and put in her apron pocket, and took up residence in her cottage. Unfortunately all the other ghosts came along too, but she got used to them in the end.

  Magpies

  Creatures which in other parts of the multiverse are a topic for wild rumour and proliferating legend are regarded in Lancre simply as rare and interesting species. To see the occasional phoenix or unicorn is sometimes a surprise, always a pleasure, but never an omen, either for good or ill. (Details of these and other remarkable fauna are to be found in the chapter on ‘Beasties’.) But there is one exception – magpies are definitely bodeful.

  The magpies which come down into Lancre from Uberwald are the spies and messengers of a powerful vampire, Count de Magpyr. But even apart from that, magpies are unpopular there for their thieving ways and for being omens.

  Something chattered at them from a nearby branch …

  ‘Good morning, Mister Magpie,’ said Agnes automatically.

  ‘Bugger off, you bastard,’ said Nanny, and reached down for a stick to throw. The bird swooped off to the other side of the clearing.

  ‘That’s bad luck,’ said Agnes.

  ‘It will be if I get a chance to aim,’ said Nanny. ‘Can’t stand those maggoty-pies.’

  ‘ “One for sorrow”,’ said Agnes, watching the bird hop along a branch.

  ‘I always take the view there’s prob’ly going to be another one along in a minute,’ said Nanny, dropping the stick.

  ‘ “Two for joy”?’ said Agnes.

  ‘It’s “two for mirth”.’

  ‘Same thing, I suppose.’

  ‘Dunno about that,’ said Nanny. ‘I was joyful when our Jason was born, but I can’t say I was laughin’ at the time.’

  Two more magpies landed on the cottage’s antique thatch.

  ‘That’s “three for a girl—”,’ said Agnes nervously.

  ‘ “Three for a funeral” is what I learned,’ said Nanny. ‘But there’s lots of magpie rhymes.’ …

  ‘ “Seven for a secret never to be told”,’ said Agnes.

  ‘ “Seven’s a devil, his own sel’ ”,’ said Nanny darkly. ‘You’ve got your rhyme, I’ve got mine.’ [Carpe Jugulum]

  *

  Things are much the same on the Earth, where magpies (also known as pies, pyats, mags, or maggoty-pies) are sinister and unpopular birds. They are shameless thieves, snatching anything bright and glittery and carrying it off to decorate their extremely untidy and badly built nests – behaviour which earned one of them a vital but non-singing role in Rossini’s opera The Thieving Magpie. It is said they will even fly down into Hell if there is a bag of gold to be found there. They love gossiping, chattering, and causing trouble; they are evil birds who know far more than they ought, always peering about and prying into other people’s business. They have always enjoyed disasters. Even in the days of Noah’s flood, the magpie refused to enter the Ark, preferring to perch on the roof and jabber with glee at the sight of the drowning world.

  Magpies are so malicious that Spanish peasants say each one has seven bristles from the Devil’s beard among its feathers, and seven bladders of bitter gall in its body. They are the Devil’s spies and messen
gers. In Russia, too, they are considered the Devil’s forces; there are said to be forty of them perched on fir trees to guard a bog where he sits enthroned on a white rock.

  Throughout England and Scotland for the past two hundred years and more, there have been rhymes to warn you what to expect if you see magpies flying across your path. However, as Nanny Ogg would certainly point out, they are not very reliable, since they are not the ones the magpies know themselves. There are many versions, all agreeing that a single magpie brings bad luck, but two bring good. With three and four, there is more choice:

  One for sorrow,

  Two for joy,

  Three for a girl,

  And four for a boy.

  Or:

  One for sorrow,

  Two for mirth,

  Three for a wedding,

  Four for a birth.

  Or on the other hand, in the oldest known version (from Lincolnshire in 1780) it is:

  Three for a wedding,

  And four for a death.

  After which things become more complicated. You can have:

  Five for silver, six for gold,

  Seven for a secret never to be told.

  Or:

  Five for rich, six for poor,

  Seven for a witch, I can tell you no more.

  Or:

  Five for England, six for France,

  Seven for a fiddler, eight for a dance.

  Or:

  Five for heaven, six for hell,

  Seven, you’ll see the devil himsel’.

  To be on the safe side when a magpie crosses your path, and to turn aside the bad luck, you can draw a cross on the ground, or lay two straws or sticks crosswise; or bow to the bird, saying ‘Good day, Mr Magpie!’, or blow a kiss towards it; or recite this charm:

  I crossed the magpie, and the magpie crossed me;

  Devil take the magpie, and God save me!

  CUSTOMS OF LANCRE

  For some years now, the Ankh-Morpork Folk Dance and Song Society has been compiling an archive of old folk customs and fertility rituals from the countryside around. One summer a lady folklorist arrived on Nanny Ogg’s doorstep, demanding information. ‘Well,’ said Nanny, ‘there’s only one fertility ritual that I knows of and that’s the one that comes nat’rally.’ But the lady said, ‘No, there’s got to be loads of folk stuff hanging on because I am writing a book, and I will give you this handsome silver dollar, my good woman.’

  So Nanny Ogg gave her what she reckoned was one dollar’s worth, but no more. This included the Scouring of the Long Man, as described above, and two or three others, which will be found in A Tourist Guide to Lancre:

  The Seven-Year Flitch. This is an old custom datin’ back to one Miscegenation Carter who left some money in his will to set it up to provide a flitch of bacon for the deservin’ poor. It is held every five years. It is open to any man who has been married for more than seven years to appear before the Flitch Court, which consists of six old married couples, an’ swear that in that time he has never had a cross word with his wife or regretted bein’ married. If he does, he is beaten near senseless with the flitch for lying, but brought round with strong drink and the rest of the day is a fair. So far no man has ever convinced the Court an’ the flitch is the original one, which is as hard as oak now.

  The Lancre Oozer. The Oozer, attended by people dressed up as his Squeasers, dances from house to house in every village on Old Hogswatch Eve until people gives them money to go somewhere else. It is said that any maiden kissed by the Oozer is sure to be pregnant before the year is out but this is an odds-on bet in these parts anyway.

  The Slice Mummers’ Play. This is performed on the first Saturday after Marling Day, when the characters of Old Hogfather, Death, Merry Hood and the White Knight perform an age-old ritual tellin’ of the death and resurrection of really bad acting. This is the high spot of the Slice Fair and Revels. There is not a lot to do in Slice. Well, not that isn’t mostly banned everywhere else.

  The similarities to Earthly customs here are truly astonishing. Anyone who knows anything about English traditions will recognize the name of the Dorset Ooser, a large, heavy wooden head with bull’s horns, goggle eyes, and movable snapping jaws. Folklorists found out about it in 1891, at which time it was kept by a family in Crewkerne, but could get no information on how it was used. It has since disappeared, or perhaps it took a dislike to the folklorists and ran away. Its Discworld counterpart behaves very much like the May Day Obby Oss at Padstow in Cornwall, which dances from house to house through the narrow streets, led by a Teaser, and accompanied by singers and a massed band of accordions and drums. This goes on all day. If the Oss catches a woman, she will be married and/or pregnant within a year.

  Mumming Plays can be seen in many towns and villages of England, Lowland Scotland, and parts of Ireland around Christmas time (or Easter, in Lancashire). They always involve a lot of shouting of bad verse, two or three fights, a death, and a resurrection brought about by a quack doctor. And then someone takes up a collection from the spectators. Folklorists used to think this was some sort of extremely ancient fertility ritual, but eventually got around to noticing the collection, and the odd fact that performances used to take place outside rich men’s houses, and nowadays at a pub.

  As for the Seven-Year Flitch, this recalls something which has been going on, off and on, for at least six hundred years at Great Dunmow in Essex. Originally, any man who, having been married for more than a year, could convince the monks at Little Dunmow Priory that he had never once had words with his wife or wished he was single again, would be given a flitch of bacon and carried in procession. Successful claims were few and far between. When the monastery was closed down at the Reformation, successive Lords of the Manor took responsibility for keeping the custom going, and did so till 1751, when they dropped it. Fortunately, in 1854 the bestselling novelist Harrison Ainsworth wrote an enthusiastic description, The Flitch of Bacon, or the Custom of Dunmow (it can still be found). This inspired a revival, which has flourished ever since. Nowadays there is a mock trial, with the wives giving evidence, and the whole thing is treated as a joke.

  Soul Caking

  If the lady folklorist from Ankh-Morpork had produced another dollar, she could have learned about the excitements of the Soul Cake Days, which are celebrated in the Ramtops and on the Sto Plains on the first Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday after first half-moon in the month of Sektober. Readers attempting to work out this date should bear in mind that on the Discworld it is extremely dangerous to utter the magic number ‘eight’, or any of its derivatives, in any language.

  According to the Discworld Almanak, the Soul Cake Days are ‘celebrated by Dwarfs and Men with great fires, much noise, and mysterious customs, too many to catalogue, and some too moist to recommend’. It is known that Morris Dancing is involved; also that dwarfs play at Bobbing for Toffee-Rats on a Stick, and human children go Trickle-Treating. Lady folklorists in Ankh-Morpork assume that this is just a local pronunciation of ‘Treacle-Treating’, meaning that the kids who dress up and go from house to house are hoping to be given treacle gob-stoppers as their treat. Male folklorists hold the opinion (never mentioned in print, or in the hearing of their female colleagues) that the name arose because people who refuse to hand out any treats later find a rather nasty trickle on their doorstep.

  Lancre children are also given eggs with funny faces on them (Nanny Ogg is a dab hand at painting them). There must be some connection with the Soul Cake Tuesday Duck, a magical creature which lays chocolate eggs for children in Ankh-Morpork, as will be described in a later chapter. And this in turn links up with the fact that the duck-hunting season begins that Tuesday. The good people of Ubergigl (in Uberwald) mark the date by ‘The Running of the Ducks’, when maddened untamed ducks run, more or less, through the streets, pursued by young men who vie with one another to snatch the coveted rosette from the beak of the biggest drake. Perhaps their minds have been affected by some floating awareness of the Ru
nning of the Bulls, which is done every July at a fiesta at Pamplona in Spain.

  All of which is well and good, but does not even begin to explain what souls, and cakes, have to do with it. Here, by remarkable coincidence, English traditions can again cast light on the problem. In the Middle Ages 2 November, All Souls’ Day, was the day when Christians prayed particularly for the souls of the dead, to speed them on their way from Purgatory to Heaven (as is still done in Catholic countries); on this and the preceding days, it was customary for those who could afford it to give away little cakes to the poor, asking them too to pray for the donor’s dead family and friends. Long after the religious purpose had been forgotten, people made fancy cakes at this time of year, and called them ‘soul cakes’; in the nineteenth century in the rural parts of Cheshire and Shropshire, the poorer people went from farm to farm asking for money, food or drink, with the song:

  Soul, soul, for a souling cake,

  I pray you, good missis, for a souling cake,

  Apple or pear, a plum or a cherry,

  Anything good to make us merry.

  Up with your kettles and down with your pans,

  Give us an answer and we’ll be gone.

  They said they were ‘Going Soul Caking’, but secretly they hoped there’d be some beer to go with the cakes, or, better still, some money. By the end of that century the custom had died out among adults; children, however, were still keeping it up in the 1950s. Though sometimes they forgot about the cakes:

  Soul, soul, for an apple or two,

  If you’ve got no apples, pears will do;

  If you’ve got no pears, ha’pennies will do;

  If you’ve got no ha’pennies, God bless you.