The Folklore of Discworld

and hang up their skins to dry. If memories from Black Annis’s mind had infected Black Aliss, it’s a wonder that she didn’t become far more wicked than she did.
    Names shape people. When a young witch gives herself a new name, it tells you who and what she wants to be – who and what she will inevitably become. Most times, all it means is a little vanity, a little snobbishness and misplaced romance. If a girl named Violet prefers to be ‘Magenta’, or an Agnes becomes ‘Perdita’, that does no great harm. But if a Lucy turns into a ‘Diamanda’, that shows she’s already a bright, hard little bitch, and intends to become brighter and harder.
    So what of that most powerful and evil of witches, who began her life in Lancre as plain Lily Weatherwax, but took the name Lilith when she moved to Genua? How did it come into her mind? Surely it must have arrived as a particle of inspiration, originating in a parallel universe. For in Earthly myth and legend ‘Lilith’ is the name of a terrible female demon, noted for pride as well as cruelty. It is said that she was Adam’s first wife, but refused to submit to his authority and fled from Eden into the desert, where she consorted with demons and became a demon herself. Ever since, she has exploited her beauty by seducing sleeping men in their dreams, and satisfied her cruelty by killing women in childbirth and strangling young babies. She feeds on their blood and sucks the marrow from their bones. And so, in her own way, does Lilith of Genua. She takes people’s lives and twists them, sucking away their will-power and personality, forcing them into the patterns of old stories where she, and she alone, is in control. Yet all the time she is enslaving them, she convinces herself that she is the good godmother, the good witch. And if that’s not being a wicked witch, what is?

 
Chapter 9
THE LAND OF
LANCRE

     
L ANCRE L ANDMARKS
The Dancers
    WHEN PEOPLE HAVE LIVED in the same place for generations, they know every inch of the countryside as if it were their own backyard, which it often is. They like things to have reasons, a name, a history, an explanation. Particularly an explanation. Everything inexplicable demands an explanation. Narrativium takes over, the land becomes filled with stories, and the result is a fine crop of folklore. On the Discworld the process is most obvious in Lancre and on the Chalk, though much the same thing would be found in every country if anyone went to look.
    Of course, there are always people who wouldn’t take a folk tale seriously even if it jumped up and bit them (which, given the power of narrativium, it might quite well do). Consider the case of Eric Wheelbrace, that most resolute and rational of ramblers, now alas missing and presumed dead. Among interesting features noted in his essay ‘Lancre: Gateway to the Ramtops’ (included in A Tourist Guide to Lancre ), he briefly mentions the Dancers, a group of standing stones on a small area of moorland about midway between Lancre River and the Ramtops:
    There are eight of them, in a circle wide enough to throw astone across. They are reddish, about man height, and barely thicker than a man as well. Local legend has it that they are a gateway into the kingdom of the elves but the truth is likely to be much more prosaic. They are typical of a style of silicon chronograph constructed in the dawn of time by our ignorant forebears. Basically, they are an underused resource, and I for one intend to organize a Lancre Music and Dance Festival next year, based round the stones, which are in a perfect location for that sort of activity. It is my belief that the stories are put about by the locals in order to keep people away, but we will not be deterred. [ A Tourist Guide to Lancre ]
    Oh deary, deary me. Eight of them, a magic number. And called The Dancers, too, with a Piper and a Drummer among them. This looks very much like a warning that something eldritch happened there in the olden days, and maybe could happen again. The witches have done their best to make sure everyone avoids the place. Even the more stupid locals have some notion of the dangers:
    ‘I remember an old story about this place,’ said Baker. ‘Some man went to sleep up here once, when he was out hunting.’
    ‘So what? I can do that,’ said Carter. ‘I go to sleep every night, reg’lar.’
    ‘Ah, but this man, when he woke up and went home, his wife was carrying on with someone else and all his children