Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.

Chapter Twenty-one:

Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.

Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.

We are on the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. It is high summer, June - July. In which First Contact is made with a very singular Tribe.

Now read on….

From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia.

August 14th The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon.

Hi Johanna!

Well, after many eventful adventures and a short trip through the jungle belt, we are now guests in the town of Chirundu in the interestingly-named semi-autonomous state of Smith-Rhodesia. In fact, because of the unorthodox method of our arrival and the direction from which we travelled, we were briefly taken for unwelcome illegal border-crossers and the three of us (Yes. Three.) were detained on arrival for questioning. Apparently, we should have crossed in the approved manner at the Otto Beit Bridge and petitioned for admission at the heavily fortified customs and border guard station on the Smith-Rhodesian side. As at the time we were being pursued by a determined impi of Zulu soldiers, we pointed out that while the Smith-Rhodesian authorities were making their minds up as to whether or not we were legitimate travellers, it could very quickly have become an academic point. But more of this later.

Chirundu is right at the very Hubwards extremity of the confederation of states known as The Union of Rimwards Howondaland. It marks the furthest Hubwards extension of your peoples and is essentially the place where the Boors and others could no longer Trek. It is largely reclaimed from the surrounding wild forests and jungles your great ancestor encountered According to the standard history, this place marks where the white man civilized the wilderness and brought it into prosperity, despite unfriendly and hostile natives in need of Civilisation, where a wilderness neglected for millennia by the blacks (thus proving their inferior status) was brought into prosperity and bloom.

I suspect this is not the whole story.

The town marks the only possible river crossings over the B'Ware and Brown rivers, which converge here into the Lake M'Boli system, known to White Howondalandians as Lake Karibou. This wide lake system is many miles wide, almost an inland sea, and flows to the majestic Verrucania Falls(1). (Or so we are told: we won't get to see them on this trip.)

Chirundu, the only place where the rivers might be forded, say by a large army composed of either Matabeles or Zulus, is therefore of strategic importance. The town thus has the appearance of a very large Army barracks with a settlement attached as an afterthought. The people here have a mentality akin to a garrison besieged in a fortress.

Immediately over the river is the notionally independent Howondalandian state of Urabewe. This very minor kingdom is sandwiched in between the Matabele Kingdom and the Zulu Empire, and is allowed to exist as the two great Black Howondalandian powers agree that the less direct contiguous border they have, the better. Rather like Djelibeybi persisting beyond all reason long after its time, because both Tsort and Ephebe agreed there were advantages to a neutral "buffer zone" in between them.

Urabewe has a sort of peace treaty with Rimwards Howondaland and a degree of trade and mutual interaction goes on – hence the freedom to travel between the two countries via the Otto Beit Bridge. Manufactured goods out of Rimwards Howondaland go one way; a reserve of dependable cheap labour, hired for the day and strictly vetted, comes the other. The Urabewian economy – at bottom, the daily wages of many of its citizens - depends on the goodwill of all three of its neighbours, and its leaders dance on a very narrow wire. But the country is powerless in itself with no standing army and perhaps a handful of ramshackle patrol boats (the obsolescent hand-me-downs of the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy, provided as "goodwill aid") policing the maritime border on the Lake. As we discovered, Matabele and Zulu troops come and go through Urabewian territory as they will at need or whim. And oh, did we ever discover this.

We do not plan to stay here very long and in fact, arrangements are being made for us to take passage to New Scrote, the state capital.

Mariella has said she will brief you on events concerning our stay with the Indians and our passage into the wild jungles.

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

meanwhile, some weeks earlier:

Pages from the journal of Ginger-With-Freckles, Ogglala warrior (honorary)

July, at Sprained Ankle, catching up on my writing

Hi, Johanna!

We only got to spend less than a week with the Ogglala Indians. But as it turned out, it was a very eventful week. We had intended longer, but Events Intervened.

The first event was on the evening of our arrival and acceptance by the Indians. One Indian, the sub-chief called {{Rust}} who I had caused to lose face, was clearly fuming with resentment at my humbling of him and keen to even the score. This led to a confrontation. We had been spending time with Nottie Garlick, who was looking for Officer Kirstie's retinue of escorting Feegles. They had disappeared somewhere in the sprawl of teepees, no doubt looking for something to plunder or else for unguarded firewater.

Kirstie herself was still concluding deep Witch to Not-A-Kelda business with Anana Ogglala; as a very much junior Witch, Nottie had been asked to go and find something else to be busy with for an hour or two. Locating the stray Feegles, rather than leave them stranded in Howondaland when she flew back, was important. The Indians might not have appreciated this, for one thing. We tagged along. I haven't met that many Feegle and I find them to be interesting people.

Between us we ruled out the obvious place – the back of Dibbler's cart where he apparently keeps a stock of what he is pleased to call "firewater". Then again, Feegle seem to prefer stronger drink than that.

We have a couple of flasks of Klatchian Orakh in our travelling bags. We thought it might be useful for emergencies, say as anaesthetic or for sterilisation in the event of medical intervention being necessary.

But no Feegle here either.

We eventually found them admiring the tribe's totem pole, apparently the focus for the religious devotions of the Indian people.

Well, they were climbing it and swinging off the stylized eagle wings at the top, nearly twenty feet up. I wondered, briefly, how High Priest Ridcully might react to tourists climbing the Great Devotional Statue of Blind Io in the Temple, and swinging on the thunderbolt being poised in His right hand to deliver divine wrath. And how the Great God Blind Io Himself might react to that.

Nottie called them down, after doing the thing with her palm and her forehead.

"This isn't a bloody adventure playground!" she said, amongst other well-chosen rebukes. We watched as half a dozen Feegle meekly did as they were told and stood with their heads hanging. If Rivka or I had attempted anything like that, it would have passed the event horizon of overconfidence and into the Other Thing which stands beyond.

"Ay, weel, mistress." said the spokesFeegle. "We was looking round, ye ken, taking in the ambience of a different civilization, you might say, and we saw this…"

"Aye, Mistress. And then Wee Scunner Hamish here says, must ha' been one strong bigjob tae have thrown a caber that size, and getting it tae land upright like that takes skill and pree-cision…"

"And what wi' our Kelda bein' safe in the croft of yon local Hag, we thought, weel, let's have some us-time, let's dae it, and climb the thing…"

Nottie breathed out.

"No harm done." she said. "Now let's get back, shall we? They might get intense about foreigners and women being in their religious places. Trust me. Local customs can get tricky."

The Feegle grinned at us.

"Hey, Prickly Pear Girl and Ginger-With-Freckles!" one called.

"Hey, Jock! Ye got to be careful with they Assassin lassies!"

"Ye ken? Ye know when one of they Rust whelps tried tae inhume a Feegle mound? And the lads there stitched her up a treat?"(2)

We'd heard about that. It might have been Deborah or it might have been Lucinda Rust, but that is an example of going past over-confidence and into the next area, the rarefied zone that very few Assassins, be they students or graduates, ever attain. (3) Thank you for telling us about that strictly unofficial prize you confer among your peers in the Staffroom, by the way. Trying to inhume an entire Feegle clan all at once. Only a Rust. Was it a try for the Teatime Prize? A true Darwin Award twice over, as the Feegle would not qualify for the entry qualifications of the Teatime?

But we got on with the Feegle. Who would, I suspect, be difficult people in a fight. (Has anyone in the Guild studied them? Would anyone want to take out a contract on the NacMacFeegle, and would the Guild ever accept one? There must be a strategy.)

And then our way was blocked by the warrior {{Rust}} and some of his cronies. He addressed me in a voice dripping with hate. I couldn't understand a word, but the implications were clear. Nottie and Rivka looked as if they were prepared to get into a fight alongside me and there was a definite chilling in the atmosphere. I felt a nudge in the area of my left ankle and glanced quickly down. A small, wide and muscly Feegle, one who had not spoken so far, looked up at me.

"Ye has a fight, lady." he said. "Yon bravo wants your ugly red hair for a trophy. His words."

I understood. Fight and win, or be scalped. Other Indians were arriving, making the inevitable widening circle that marked an arena. They included the Chief, Anana Ogg, and Officer Kirstie. Without a word, the half-dozen or so escorting Feegle sped over to do the bodyguarding thing for her. Even though I was watching {{Rust}} intently, I registered the effect the Feegle were having on those who hadn't seen them before. More powerful medicine brought about by the paleskin women, I hoped.

"It's got to be single combat." I heard Rivka say, in a low voice. "don't worry. I'll get him if it looks like you're in trouble."

And they stood back.

Then {{Rust}} was whooping and leaping at me with his tomahawk raised. As you once said during an Unothodox Combat lecture, it makes it so much easier if the other person signals their mode of attack.

I didn't even need to draw my machete. It was so easy to sidestep, grab his weapon arm, unbalance him and send him sprawling. The watching Indians whooped appreciation. I gathered that {{Rust}} is not universally liked.

Then he was up again – incredibly quickly – and leaping for me again. I heard a voice say "Mariella! You've got to do this so they can see! Draw your sword!"

I barely had time to block his rush with the tomahawk, a crude weapon with a stone head lashed to a wooden handle. He was strong, but untutored. To be honest, I was wondering how to be seen to win this fight without killing him. Then, as he rushed at me again, I realized this was the wrong sort of thinking. I had to defeat him. If the defeat involved killing him, I could worry about that later.

I stepped aside again and brought up my machete. The fast draw which is also a defence, as Madame Emmanuelle taught. I did not want to hit the stone head of the crude axe, as that can damage the blade. But the blade caught the wooden handle beneath the head; the shock of impact was jarring, but it was wrenched from his fingers and flew off to the left.

{{Rust}} looked consternated and tried to work his hand; I wondered if I'd damaged his fingers. Then he dived and rolled for the hand-axe. His agility was amazing. The effect was somewhat spoilt when he retrieved the weapon and stood up. With a very pleasing effect, the weight of the head caused the weapon to wobble unsteadily, then the head of the axe fell to one side and dangled uselessly from the handle, attached only by a residual strip of broken wood. I'd managed to only partially hack through it, but that was enough: the sight of the Indian warrior looking to his weapon, realizing, and a look of triumph fading to be replaced by one of perplexed frustration at a useless hand-axe, was comical. A couple of hundred spectators began laughing.

This made him really angry. He threw the useless axe down with a roar of anger, and drew the dagger he carried at his waist. Then leapt at me again.

This time I didn't bother with my machete.

As you taught us, people coming at you with knives expect you to run or evade. The last thing they expect is for you to step forward inside their reach. This meant the knife went wide and I could ball up my left fist and punch him. As you say, it hurts whatever you do. But {{Rust}} reeled back, felt his face with shock and alarm, and reacted badly to his own blood welling from between his fingers. Indians tend to have big aquiline noses.

As his knife dropped, I tripped him and threw him to the ground. Then he had the point of my machete at his throat.

I was angry, yes, but a little voice was urging restraint. What did I do now? Did this man have a wife – a squaw – and children? Was I now expected to finish the task and inhume him? What did local custom expect?

I looked to the Chief. And to Anana Ogg. Both stood there, impassive, with arms folded. Mr Dibbler the Third was also there, twirling his absurd animal-fur cap in front of him, looking consternated and worried. I called to him.

"Translate for me! Tell the Chief I will do as he asks in this matter. I do not wish to deprive him of a warrior for his war-party and weaken his Tribe."

I hope I'd guessed correctly. The Chief heard and nodded.

"But let it be heard. This man has come against me twice. I have defeated him twice. I will let him live. This time. But if he comes at me for a third time with intent to kill, then I will kill him! Let that be understood!"

There was general acclaim as the words were translated and relayed.

Anana Ogglala grinned broadly.

"You did good, Ginger-with-Freckles." she said. "You got warrior status now, for sure!"

{{Rust}} was taken away for a stern word from his Chief – we learn later he was being exiled from the Camp to dwell in the Scalbie enclosure for a few weeks, so as to learn humility and reflect on letting his confidence outstrip his ability to see trouble coming. The Scalbies apparently do the dirty work here but are forced to live in their own segregated enclosure on the edge of the camp. They must retreat there at nightfall.

"Ah. A township." I said, when later in the evening, Anana Ogglala made some cutting comment concerning apartheid policy in our country. But an evolved and ethical society like the Plains Indians wouldn't have any sort of apartheid policy, of course!

Kirstie and Anana fixed {{Rust}}'s broken nose. Her Feegle guard came up to congratulate me on a good fight well fought, lassie, and you really pit the hems on yon dirty great bauchle scunner, nae bother!

"Aye." Said the one known as Silent Bob, for he rarely speaks and when he does it's direct and to the point. "Bigjob Lassie has the red hair, though. Redheid bigjobs. Human Feegle."

The Feegle then spoke about yon redhead lassie at the Guild of Assassins. You know. Special constable of the Watch, aye. You'd no want tae offend her. I wonder who they could possibly mean, Johanna?

Then agreed that I must be kin, Aye. Yon two lassies are kin.

Silent Bob, after long thought, opined that we works for Hags, who have a special twist in the heid that makes a bigjob woman into a Hag. Foreby, do Assassin lassies have the same twist inside the heid, but in a different direction?

Something to consider. After Nottie and Kirstie and the Feegles flew back to the City, we remained as guests in Anana's teepee. We shared our trail rations and she provided some foodstuffs that were not meat, and relaxed with a good hostess.

"One thing I learnt on me Vision Quest in Ankh-Morpork". Anana said. "Your kind of fighting where you sort of close your fist and use it as a weapon is completely un-known around here. It shocks people to get punched. They don't know it, see. No defence. But you still did well."

She took a drink of the tea we'd brought with us.

"Nice taste. Soothing. Could you trade some of this when you leaves? It gets more-ish. Can't get it round here often. That and sugar."

Anana likes tea with four sugars, by the way.

"Reminds me. You ain't the first of your people to come this way. About a month ago. This young lad comes ridin' in on a, what do you call it, a canoe of the sand country? Camel. That's the word. Yeah. Still got it here."

We started to pay attention.

"Pale skin, but tanned. Got that hair colour of sunbleached dead grass. Lots of you people have that. Bit of a twonker. And one of your bloody lot." she said, looking at me.

"So some of the lads brings him in and we questions him. Like we did with you. Got an attitude on him. Apparently he's got to get back to the Vondalaander country by a certain date and he's only passin' through, so can he get on his way? Anyway, we reminded him of his lot's attitude towards we mere coloured people and said as how we don't appreciate it very much, and my lad Chief Two-Horses (4) went for a ponder on the peace-pipe. Then when he come back he said as how Blond-Boy-Pain-In-The-Arse – what's your people's word, Ginger-With-Freckles? Bliksem? And Doosis, Pielkop, Draadtrekker… slow down a sec, good words, good words, from the heart, I sees…. Anyhow, my lad says as how he was going to leave it to the Gods to decide. So our guest was going to get a great honour, granted to few palefaces, and go on a Vision Quest. Might even learn a bit of wisdom, if he lives. After that, we'd give him a horse and supplies and an escort and point him in the right direction. Go due Rimwards from Sprained Ankle, and don't even think of comin' back."

"If he lives?" Rivka asked.

"We give him the Sun Dance." Anana said. "And fair play, he lived. Got some strength and determination in him, that lad. Traded his camel for a good horse, and we sent him on near three weeks since. If he gets through the deep forest and the really dark thick green stuff on the other side, where nobody of the Indian nations goes or cares to go, he's home, in't he, in your crazy kemosabie Vondalaander country?"

The Guild should know this.

Horst Lensen managed to get away from Miriam (or maybe she pushed him in the correct direction when she got tired of him) and he evidently managed to cross the sub-Nef and get into the Great Plains. Now he is somewhere ahead of us attempting the crossing of the Jungle. We may meet him again soon.

Considering that the next morning we saw for ourselves what the Sun Dance is and what it entails. We can only say that a non-Indian who has the strength of will and the fortitude to survive this ordeal must have hidden depths and resources of mind and character. Even though Horst Lensen must be coming close to his deadline, in all fairness and honesty we have to report to the Guild that he appears to have demonstrated amazing reserves of strength and determination. With one very deep breath. Fairness dictates this must be taken into consideration when the final decision on his Assassin status is made. Rivka, who also with me witnessed several braves of the Ogglala undergoing this ordeal over the next few days, wholly agrees with me. Are we still classed as his informal examiners, by the way?

The Sun Dance is a terrible thing. It is like the spring dance of the maypole in the Central Continent, but re-envisioned by Elves. (touches metal). A high pole is established and long ropes of animal hide are attached to the top. At the end of each rope is a hook and this hook is skewered through the chest muscles on each side, at the top of the chest. Blood flow is immediate but not copious. It is cumulative over two or three days. The supplicant must then shuffle and move around the pole, at the full stretch of the ropes, sustained only by occasional sips of water, for as long as it takes for exhaustion, dehydration, blood loss and an altered state of consciousness to prevail. At the very least the chest is permanently scarred, although if the hooks are inserted in the correct places, no damage is done to mobility or use of the arms. The Indians are just and fair, in their way, and when the Sun Dancer has a vision, a communion with his Gods, he is cut down, passes on his vision to the Medicine Woman, and is allowed rest and healing.

We saw over the following days the terrible effect on the dancer. If Horst survived this and then rode on to complete his own trek, he deserves some admiration, idiot though he is. And I cannot help but reflect he brought it upon himself by being un-necessarily offensive to the Indian chief and his mother.

Conferring with Rivka, I feel we will now have to abandon our own journey to Port Smith-Rhodes and take the direct route, to see if we may follow him. Maybe even catch him up. A pity, as I wanted to see one of the (many) places my Family founded. But if we cross the Jungle we will, I think, soon see THE place associated with our Family. It will be interesting.

Thank you for the potatoes sent with Olga and Kirstie when they returned. Rivka had been going through withdrawal symptoms. The oatmeal will be good for mealipap. And the carrots, parsnips, turnips and wahoonies. We gave the wahoonies to the Scalbie Indians when they came panhandling, by the way. It seemed fitting.

Dinner was a magnificent bison meat AND VEGETABLE! Stew.

We send these despatches back and await Guild guidance on the Lensen situation.

There is talk of a raiding Arapaho band in the area. They may try to raid here for squaws and horses. These mutual raids are a part of life on the Plains, allow the young braves to test themselves against each other, and apparently at any one time a proportion of the equine and female population is in flux between various Tribes of the Nation. (One squaw we talked to has a sort of overnight bag packed in case of this eventuality. She shrugged and said at least it offers some variety and interest.) This might be interesting. Rivka is checking her weapons and I think I should too.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

To be continued….

(1) The adventurer then only known as Mr Cecil Smith-Rhodes made a point of naming the wild and majestic waterfall for the wife of the then Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Having taken care to bring an Official Artist on his campaign, he appended sketches and watercolours of the Falls to his report on having annexed the former native kingdom of Rumbabwe in the name of Ankh-Morpork, still the colonial ruler of the Caarp Territories. He also suggested a good name for the Falls. (1.1) His knighthood came back almost by return of despatch.

1.1 The Falls had previously had a name, translating into Morporkian as Place Where The Mighty Waters Of M'boli Fall Into The River Urabewe By Dictate Of The Water God M'Popo. But as they were only natives, this didn't count.

(2) In my tale The Lancre Caper.

(3) Educators at the Assassins' Guild school thought that sometimes, the term"overconfidence"wasn't nearly descriptive enough. Just sometimes, a student did something so incredibly ill-advised, badly-considered or just spectacularly dense that the teacher who witnessed it just had to share the account with their peers. A sort of "league table" was pinned up in the Staffroom with Name. House and a description of the circumstances leading that pupil to be considered for a non-coveted place in the Hall of Non-Fame. Called the Darwin Award after one especially memorable pupil (the Honourable Sebastian Darwin of Welcome Soap House), Lord Downey had vetoed any attempt to make The Darwin Award For Exceptional Stupidity into anything official as "it would look bad".

(4) A consequence of the first thing his mother saw on the other side of the tepee flap after giving birth. The Chief of the Ogglala insisted his name was Virile-Stallion-Servicing-Mare, as that's what his dear mum evidently meant. But to his people, he was Chief Two-Horses.

Notes Dump:

A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text. Somewhere in the text but not necessarily here. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.

Notes on Rhodesia, as was, for Discworldization

CHIRUNDU – border town in Rhodesia on the ZAMBEZI river, Zambia on the other side, linked by the Otto Beit Bridge and the scene of frequent clashes between Rhodesian Army and guerrillas of the ZANU/PPF and other random Scrabble-board accretions.

Lake Karibu marking much of the border – crossings only by boat (the CDA has a Lake M'boli on the border of Urabewe and an unspecified Other Howondaland, The B'WARE river and the BROWN river. )

Victoria Falls further West

KANYEMBA further north also on the border.

Makuti, Charai, Chinhoi, Kildoran, towns on the road to Salisbury/Harare ("New Scrote")

Chitungwiza, Chivhu, Gutu, (Interesting placename called "Triangle") BULAWAYO to the west, Mazvinghu, Rutenza, Beitbridge – then over the border into SA at Messina, LIMPOPO River

"Manicaland" – Maniac land)

Vumba mountains, Europeanized

Protea, the flame lily or fire-plant: massive bright red flowers fringed in vivid yellow, like living flames.

P.K. van der Byl: extremely unpleasant Rhodesian Afrikaaner who practically ran the country on behalf of the increasingly out-of-touch-with-reality Ian Smith. Who had to manage the legacy of the founder, Cecil Rhodes, in the bleak-for-colonial-imperialism 1960's and 1970's. (blindingly obvious: Smith-Rhodes. What did Terry P intend to do with a character of this name? We'll never know…) Rhodesia was notorious for interpreting and applying apartheid on its black people in a way that made neighbouring South Africa seem both benign and liberal.

Promoted to the cabinet in 1968, Van der Byl became a spokesman for the Rhodesian government and crafted a public image as a die-hard supporter of continued white minority rule. In 1974 he was made Minister of Foreign Affairs and Defence at a time when Rhodesia's only remaining ally, South Africa, was supplying military aid. His extreme views and brusque manner made him a surprising choice for a diplomat (a November 1976 profile in The Times described him as "a man calculated to give offence"[1]). After offending the South African government, Van der Byl was removed from the Defence Ministry.

Pieter Kenyon Fleming-Voltelyn van der Byl, son of Pieter Voltelyn Graham van der Byl, South African "Minister of Native Affairs" in 1948 and an architect of apartheid.

Bonus Lyric (If I can find and translate it) - to broaden my readers' minds about South African rock/pop music (although this one verges on C&W - please don't hold that against it, it's actually quite good and for those who can't get the lyrics in Afrikaans, the video tells an entertaining "farmer needs a wife" story, Boer soek n'vrou.)

Plain Jane - Ampie Du Preez

Damn, drawn a total blank on getting Afrikaans lyrics for this song. But from memory the chorus might run something like "Plain Jane, quiet, sane, a farmer's girl from Magersfontein!" and goes on to a line like "the kind of girl my heart desires".

Also "Soen my op my boepie" – kiss me on my belly(button)… more forgettable apart from the chorus, which kind of lends itself to communal song in the clubhouse following a match. With adapted lyrics.

The Twelve tribes of Israel (Biblical)

Reuben.

Simeon.

Levi (this priestly tribe did not receive a territory, and sometimes is not listed when the tribe of Joseph is listed as two separate tribes).

Judah.

Zebulun.

Issachar.

Dan.

Gad.

Asher.

Naphtali.

Joseph (often listed as two tribes named for his sons, Ephraim and Manasseh).

Benjamin.

So far so good. Ten tribes drop out of the story after exile to Babylon; two (Judah and Israel) are the only ones who remain, said to be the parents of today's Jewish people. Some weird stories get told of the ten lost tribes. Given some of the weird stories on which whole weird and alarmingly doctrinaire/dogmatic religions have been based, those Ten Lost Tribes might just as well have taken a seriously wrong turn in the desert and ended up on the Discworld. (Why not?) So we get Cenotia, the ten Tribes of Isaac:

Reuben.

Simeon.

Levi

Zebulun.

Issachar.

Dan.

Gad.

Asher.

Naphtali.

Benjamin.

To make it up to twelve again in a Discworld context…

McSweeney (long-established Cenotian tribe)

Ogg (and why not).

"Skjir jou wekht" (sounds like) – "fuck off!" in Dutch but not Afrikaans. Interesting! (Caspar de Vries on Hollandse versus Afrikaans)