The Folklore of Discworld

Greek for ‘innocence’. This is the kind of thing people expect of her, and it all helps to build her reputation. But the skulls hold a secret. There is a label underneath, and it says:
    Ghastly Skull No. 1 Price $2.99
    The Boffo Novelty and Joke Shop
    No. 4, Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork
    “If it’s a Laugh … it’s a Boffo!”
    The cobwebs also came from there, and Boffo does masks and warts and green bubbling cauldrons too.
    So, where is the difference between Miss Treason buying skulls from Boffo’s catalogue and Mrs Earwig buying silver pendants and crystals at Zakzak’s shop? The point is this. Mrs Earwig thinks that power comes from elaborate devices, and to think this is to misunderstand the whole essence of the craft. But Miss Treason knows that you don’t need a wand or a shamble or even a pointy hat to be a witch, but that it helps a witch if she puts on a show. Give people what they expect to see. It’s all a form of ‘headology’, like the hat or Granny Weatherwax’s bottle of coloured water. That way, you get respect.
    Looking back on her life’s work as death approaches, Miss Treason muses:
    ‘Oh, my silly people. Anything they don’t understand is magic. They think I can see into their hearts, but no witch can do that. Not without surgery, at least. No magic is needed to read their little minds, though. I’ve known them since they were babes … I see their lies and excuses and fears. They never grow up, not really …’
    ‘I’m sure they’ll miss you,’ said Tiffany.
    ‘Ha! I’m the wicked ol’ witch, girl. They feared me, and did what they were told! They feared joke skulls and silly stories. I chose fear. I knew they’d never love me for telling ’em the truth, so I made certain of their fear. No, they’ll be relieved to hear the witch is dead.’
    As a Roman general said long ago, Oderint dum metuant – ‘Let them hate me, so long as they fear me.’
    If you want to be remembered for generations in folk tradition, whether as a hero, a saint, or a sage, a good death scene is vitally important. Now, one of the minor benefits of being a witch is that you know, months or even years in advance, exactly when you are going to die, so you can stage-manage the event to perfection. (On Earth, legend says that exceptionally holy people have this privilege too.) Having done all the obvious things (cleaned the cottage, made a will, destroyed any embarrassing old letters or spells still lying around), you can throw a really good ‘going-away party’. This is like a wake, but with yourself as guest of honour, still taking a keen interest. People, especially other witches, come from miles around to enjoy the food (as Nanny Ogg says, you cannot go wrong with a ham roll) and to let it be discreetly known that they have always rather admired your brass candlesticks, or your big carving-dish with the blue-and-gold border. It saves a great deal of squabbling if you, the soon-to-be-late witch, can organize the distribution of these little mementoes yourself.
    And then, when everyone has gone home and there’s been a few hours of peace and quiet, you just head for the garden, where somehelpful neighbour has dug a neat grave (in Miss Treason’s case, it was the Nac Mac Feegles who did the job), climb down into it (watched by an awed but appreciative audience of village folk), lie down carefully, and wait … It is a fine thing to be able to organize your own Rite of Passage, and Miss Treason pulls it off perfectly.
    And she succeeds in her aim of turning herself into a myth. Within a few weeks of her death, her grave was covered with scraps of paper pegged down with sticks, each bearing a message:
    ‘Miss Treason please keep my boy Joe save at see.’
    ‘Miss treason, I’m goin bald please help.’
    ‘Miss Treason, please find our girl Becky what run away I’m sorry.’
    Even though there was a new young witch dispensing justice – and quite impressively too, in her own way – people still put their trust and hopes in what they knew. They brought their small prayers to Miss Treason’s grave, just as the shepherds of the Chalk left packets of Jolly Sailor tobacco where Granny Aching’s old shepherding hut used to stand:
    They didn’t write their petitions down, but they were there, all the same, floating in the air:
    ‘Granny Aching, who herds the clouds in the blue sky, please watch my sheep. Granny Aching, cure my son. Granny Aching, find my lambs.’
    And so a witch, or a