The Hanged Weaver: A Little Witch Tale

The girl had heard the warnings:

If she saw the Old One making her rounds this month, it was best to leave the hooded hag alone. The Old One had a quick temper, and if someone said the wrong thing, they'd be met with icy winds and sleet. The girl had heard the warnings, but she knew if she trod lightly, the Old One had a soft spot for good conversation.

As the rumor went, the Old One knew everything. She was educated in magick and fate and the ways of fairies and the four-footed. She held the secrets of the horned huntresses, hoofed women, and the sisters holding the slippery reigns of time. The Old One was every bit as mesmerizing as she was maddening. She'd answer every question asked of her, although finding reason in her riddles proved near impossible.

The girl had heard the warnings, but she wasn't deterred, not even when she spotted the Old One's cottage, a tired hut just beyond the tree line. She stepped across the wooded threshold and recalled what she knew about the three great ages:

There was the age of the yew tree,

The age of the eagle,

And the age of the Old Hanged Weaver.

She knew the witch was old, ancient even. But how old was ancient? How many times had she circled the sun? What was the age of the Hanged Weaver?

The girl knocked at the door, determined to ask.