The Hanged Weaver: A Samhain Story
The girl had heard the warnings: If she saw the Old One making her rounds this winter, it was best to leave the hooded hag alone. The Old One had a quick temper, and if she said the wrong thing, the crone would respond with snow and sleet. The girl had heard the warnings, but she also 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 who spin 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 deciphering reason from 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 cozy 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 her soul circled the sun? What was the age of the Hanged Weaver?
The girl knocked at the door, determined to ask.
